


Light Of My Eyes

by isitandwonder



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Boys In Love, Edging, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, Marriage, Mutual Masturbation, NSFW Art, Phone Sex, Rimming, Slow Burn, mild watersports, visual impairment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2019-11-26 13:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 131,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18181004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: "The light of my eyes, I said, light of my eyes, light of the world, that's what you are, light of my life."Elio is a dance student at Barnard College and needs a job. His friend Marzia finds an ad for nude models wanted at an art college and thinks it's perfect for Elio. Because out of sight, out of mind...And Professor Oliver Weizmann is really into his new model until he meets him in person. When he finds out the truth about Elio he has his doubts but eventually decides to give him a chance... it's the beginning of a journey that will take both of them to new places, broadening their minds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a doctor, I know nothing. I looked up different impairments and decided on cortical blindness. There are different types of this condition, different levels of severity. But I needed Elio to be virtually blind (it's not the rule, most visual impaired people still have some sort of vision left). If you want to know about Elio's condition look here:
> 
> https://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-cortical-blindness.htm#
> 
> There are visually impaired dancers: 
> 
> http://www.charlottemagazine.com/Charlotte-Magazine/August-2018/The-Mover/
> 
> There will be art by Chalamazed. She drew some lovely pics that inspired this.

Cover by Chalamazed - https://twitter.com/chalamazed

\----------

Click-click.

Click-click.

Click-click.

The low, rhythmic sound of hard plastic on linoleum literally grounds Elio as he moves through the corridors of Cooper Union School of Art. Thank god the woman holding his arm in a tight grip is actually walking at a normal pace. (She introduced herself as Janice. She smells nice). Often, people offering help are too cautious, maybe even a little afraid to demand too much of him, and therefore kinda creep along, so slow that Elio sometimes ends up dragging them along and not vice versa. He tries to avoid these situations as best as he can.

But today it's impossible. For all its inclusiveness, Cooper Union doesn't offer an orientation system that would allow him to find the studio classroom where he's to meet Professor Weizmann. For a job interview.

This had been Marzia's idea. Obviously it had been her who'd found the notice on the black board of Barnard College.

“Elio, listen. This is the perfect job for you.” He'd been in dire need of money ever since arriving in New York City last year. The offerings of the metropolis were quickly eating up his small allowance. And there weren't just that many job opportunities for him.

“What is it this time? If it's another offer for phone sex work you can shove that right up your-”

“Elio, you're such a prude. No, this is even better. Listen: Model wanted for Cooper Union Drawing classes. Two evenings a week for two hours. Dancers with defined physique preferred.”

“That sounds creepy. What is this? Nude modeling?”

“As if you'd care. I mean, it's not that you'll be aware if the students ogling you.”

“I still have a sense of modesty, Marzia.”

“It offers fifty Dollars an hour.”

“What!!! Are you serious?”

“That's what it says. If you're interested you should send a full body picture to a Professor Weizmann.”

Elio suddenly didn't care if the offer sounded creepy. It promised two hundred Dollars a week just for standing around. Okay, standing around naked. But, as Marzia had said, it wouldn't be that bad for him. He wouldn't see the students after all.

So Marzia had taken a few pictures of his body from down his neck in just his dance belt (keeping his face out of the frame should it be a prank or something dodgy) in one of the rehearsal studios and had helped him send them to Weizmann's number.

He'd called back the next day.

“Professor Oliver Weizmann here, Cooper Union School of Art. Am I speaking to Elio Perlman?” His voice had been friendly, warm, with a slight New England accent. Not creepy at all.

“Yes, you are.”

“I'm calling about the modeling job. I really liked your pictures. Your physique is strong but delicate. Exactly what I was looking for.”

Elio felt himself blush a little. He wasn't used to being complimented for his looks. “Thank you.”

“But I really have to see you in person to decide if you're suited for the job. It's rather demanding, even if you probably think it's just standing around. You need to maintain certain poses. And... some guys turn out to be too shy. They just can't deal with being stared at, all those eyes on them, scrutinizing them.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.”

“Well, can we meet nonetheless? How about tomorrow evening at seven? Could you come over to Cooper Square?”

Elio knew where that was. “Sure.”

He had to ask for Professor Weizmann at reception and Janice had offered to guide him.

Strangely, he isn't that nervous. Excited, yes, at the prospect of the money. He hopes that Weizmann will approve of him when he sees him. But presumably getting naked in front of a stranger in a few minutes doesn't faze him. No big deal.

Marzia had offered to accompany him, to check that Professor Weizmann out ('Maybe he's just an old perv?') but Elio had refused. He liked to be independent. He'd found his way to the Foundation Building without any problems as it was close to Astor Place Station.

After walking down a corridor, taking a lift to the third floor and walking down another corridor Janice suddenly stops as Elio's cane hits something solid. Wood, by the sound of it.

“Here we are.” He hears her knocking, then a door opens. “Professor Weizmann? Elio Perlman is here for the modeling job.”

“Oh, yes, great. Come in.” The voice sounds as if the speaker stands at the far side of a large room. Janice drops his arm after gently pushing him in the right direction. Elio extends his cane and continues to move it from left to right as he strides through the door. A few steps in, he hears it fall shut behind him. He stops, turning in the direction from where the voice of Professor Weizmann had come.

“Hi. I'm Elio.”

He's met with silence.

“Professor Weizmann?”

“Yeah... yeah, that's me. I'm over here. Uhm...”

Elio takes a few steps towards him until the cane hits something. A chair, presumably.

“So, how does this work? Do I take my clothes off or-”

“I... think there has been a mistake.” Weizmann says. His voice sounds still kind but also a bit bewildered. “I asked for a dancer.”

Elio grins. “And I am a dancer. You saw my pics. Shall I do a pirouette for you?”

“What? No... I mean... how...? You are... blind.”

Oh, not that again! Why does his condition always has to get in his way? Even for a job where he would literally just have to stand around.

“It's called visually impaired these days.” He deadpans.

“Oh, uhm... sorry. I must sound like a real idiot. I didn't want to insult you. But you're somewhat disabled, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not. I'm fine. But the world is disabling me.” He'd had this discussion so often it bores him to death these days.

Suddenly, he hears Weizmann chuckle. “Elio Perlman, I think I like you. But... are you sure about this? How old are you, anyway?”

“I'm nineteen.”

“And you study dance at Barnard College?”

“Yes. Contemporary and Modern Dance.”

“How?” Weizmann's almost childlike curiosity makes Elio overcome his usual contempt for explaining himself.

“I am cortically blind, not paralyzed or deaf. I listen to the teacher's instructions like all other students. And I have a sighted dance mentor. She helps me, corrects me. You know, dancing comes from within you... you don't have to see to be able to do it.” He feels a little embarrassed by his outbreak but hears Weizmann move towards him.

“Yes, that's true. Like all art.” He says. He must be close. Elio can smell his aftershave and a hint of paint, turpentine, tobacco... A smoker. Elio likes that. “Okay, lets try it. Take your clothes off down to your underwear... if you don't mind.”

Elio grins. “My friends know where I am, in case you're already contemplating how to hide my body.”

“Lets hope it doesn't come to that.”

Now Elio can't suppress a snort of laughter. “Is there a chair where I can put my clothes?” He hears wood scrape over a stone floor.

“Right in front of you.” Elio likes that Weizmann doesn't guide him to the chair but gives him the opportunity to find it for himself. When his cane makes contact with it he extends his hand and grabs the backrest. It seems to be a wooden folding chair. He hooks his cane over its back and pulls his hoodie over his head.

Soon, he's down to his boxer briefs.

“There's a small podium to your left, about 20 feet away. Can you go up there, please?”

Elio takes his cane and finds his way over through what seems to be a few rows of folding chairs. There are three steps he has to climb. Up on the podium he slowly turns around his axis until his cane hits something solid.

“A bench. Can you sit down on it?”

Elio carefully lowers himself. Cool, hard wood.

He hears Weizmann rummaging in his vicinity and suddenly warm air hits him and he can hear the soft whir of a fan heater.

“Nice. Thank you.”

“I don't want you to freeze until you're blue. Okay, can you put your cane down? Now put your hands behind you, arch your back. Yes, like this. Cross your legs. Okay, great. Stay like this.”

Elio does. He can hear a scraping sound. After a few moments he asks: “Are you drawing me?”

“Mh-hm.” Weizmann just hums.

“Does that mean I have the job?”

“Not if you keep talking.”

Elio's mouth snaps shut.

He has no idea how much time passes until Weizmann orders him into another position. Now he wants him to stand, one foot on the bench, the other on the floor, head thrown back, arms reaching out in front of him.

“Elio, take your trunks off.”

He does as he's told. Doesn't mind at all. He's warm. His cock hangs heavy between his legs.  
Eventually, his arms start to ache but he just ignores it. He's used to his body hurting. It will never be as bad as when he was thirteen. He can endure this easily.

Presumably, Weizmann looking at him. He doesn't care. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. It's true at this moment. 

The silence and the warm air make him a little drowsy.

“You're truly beautiful.” Weizmann's voice brings him back. It's low and sincere.

“Uhm... thanks, I guess.” It's not that he feels ugly. He knows he has a good body. Maybe a bit too wiry for some – but others like it. But he's not used to other people telling him. Usually, most are sorry for him. And some just want to take advantage, thinking he must be grateful for any sort of attention.

A few minutes later he hears Weizmann move. “Finished. I'd like to show you but...”

“What did you use?”

“Just graphite pencil.”

“Oh, I can't feel that.” Elio shrugs. “It's not like a Pollock or van Gogh. I can touch those and feel the ridges of the paint.”

“You were allowed to touch a van Gogh?” Weizmann almost shrieks.

“The perks of being... how did you put it? Disabled. People have pity on you.” Elio allows his voice to drip with disdain.

“I gather you don't like being pitied.” 

“Really smart, Pro. Can I get dressed?”

“Sure.”

Elio picks up his cane and makes his way back to the chair with his clothes. When he's pulling his hoodie back on Weizmann asks: “Are you hungry?”

“I'm a dancer. I don't eat.”

“How about coffee? Dancers do drink coffee.”

“We do.” Elio agrees.

“Can I buy you one? Down at the cafeteria?”

“What time is it?” Elio asks.

“Oh, just a little past eight.”

“Then you can buy me a real drink.”

“But you're underage.” Weizmann argues. Not very serious, though, Elio can tell.

“That's why you'll buy the drinks.” He turns towards where he remembers the door. “By the way, do I have the job.”

“You got the job, Elio Perlman.” He hears Weizmann walk past him and open the door. “So, what's your favorite haunt?”

“As you're paying, you decide.”

Elio starts moving down the corridor.

“Then I know exactly where we're going.” Weizmann sounds almost giddy. 

Elio appreciates that he doesn't touch his arm to lead him.

 

They are well into their second pint at McSorley's Old Ale House when Weizmann – no, Oliver, they have arrived at first names by then – starts to ask THE QUESTIONS.

“So... how did it happen? Are you blind from birth?”

Usually, Elio hates these questions. They always come with a dose of commiseration. As if it would help. But Oliver sounds just interested in his story.

“No. It was a car accident when I was thirteen. I suffered severe head injuries that damaged my occipital cortex.”

“What does that mean?”

“To put it simple, my optic nerves are damaged.”

“But your eyes look so... normal.”

“Yes, my eyes work just fine. But the visual information they collect doesn't reach the brain.”

“So, you live in darkness.”

“No, not really. On good days there even is something... I can't describe it... but there are colors, lighter patches. Sometimes. It's not all black. It's... I don't know. Sometimes I have the feeling of sensing, perceiving things, shapes... but my brain just can't compute the information. It all gets messed up. Blurry.”

“Is it reversible?”

“No one knows. Probably not.”

“Did you dance before the accident.”

“Yes. And that helps a lot. With the movements. I know how they're supposed to look.”

He can feel Oliver lean closer over the table. “Your pupils dilate.”

“That's a reflex.”

“You just don't look... visually impaired. See, I learned a bit. Why don't you wear dark glasses?”

“I'm not Ray Charles.”

Oliver laughs. “Fair enough. Perlman, is that Jewish?”

“Yes, it is.” Elio smiles and downs the rest of his Ale. “Another one?”

“I shouldn't. I've work tomorrow.”

Elio feels tipsy himself. But then Oliver suddenly peels the glass from his hand. “Just one for the road, okay?”

Elio nods.

“So, what will the class be like?” He asks when Oliver returns.

“Forty freshman. It's Drawing I. Basic and compulsory. But they're still so enthusiastic. I truly enjoy teaching them.”

“When does it start?”

“Tuesday next week, six to eight.”

That's when Elio's phone rings.

“Sorry.” He digs it out of his jeans' pocket and feels for the right button. “Yes?”

“How did it go?” It's Marzia.

“Hi Marzia. Good. I got the job.”

“I was worried because you didn't call me...”

“We're at a bar right now. I'll phone you later.”

“Okay.” Marzia sounds happy when she ends the call.

“Your girlfriend?”

“No, she's actually my dance mentor. And a friend. We're close. But... I don't have a girlfriend right now.” Is that too much? Is he coming on too hard?

“How's that?”

“Well, the main reason is... I'm not into girls.”

Oliver is silent for a moment. Elio knows this reaction. Gay and blind – poor boy.

But then he says: “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

Elio laughs. “No.”

“Why not?”

This leaves Elio speechless for a minute. “Well... I just don't have the time. The training...” It's a lie. Oliver doesn't buy it.

“Come on. That's not the whole story.”

Elio exhales. “What's the point? You get together, fuck, fall in love – then it ends in disaster. I don't need that. A casual hook-up. That's me. I like sex. I just don't like getting too attached.”

Oliver is quiet. Very quiet.

“You don't approve?”

“I'm a romantic, that's all.”

“My dad was as well.” It's out before Elio can really think about what he's saying. He bites his tongue. Must be the alcohol that gets him sappy. Usually he has it all in check.

“And?” Oliver asks.

“And now he's dead. End of story.” Elio gets up. “I think I should be going.”

“Wait, let me get you a taxi.” He hears Oliver shuffle at his side of the table.

“I can't afford a taxi.”

“I'll pay.”

“Don't you dare! I'll take the subway. Good night, Oliver.”

He storms out the best he can, hating his impairment deeply for once though the crowd parts for him, mumbling excuses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a little bit about Professor Oliver Weizmann.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much, dear readers! I'm blown away by the response to the first chapter. Thank you for all your lovely, encouraging comments.  
> Because some of you asked - this won't be as dark as my usual fare. There will be light angst and conflict because a story needs tension but it's harmless compared to my other stories. This one will focus on the developing relationship between Oliver and Elio as they try to bridge the gap between their worlds.  
> And I'm looking forward to link some art by the amazing Chalamazed :)!

The picture Oliver had received two days ago had been just what he was looking for: a toned, lean, wiry, pale, hairless body, muscles well defined but not bulging, the skin so white that every groove and dip was accentuated in dark shadows.

Beautiful.

Perfect for drawing.

That’s why he put the ad up at a ballet school. Dancers were incredible models, used to long hours, sore muscles, keeping positions no matter what.

And they looked amazing.

Elio was no exception – at least not on that front.

Because when he'd opened the door to the studio classroom Oliver had gotten a shock. Why, he wonders now as he rides the elevator up to his apartment in a red brick building in Peter Cooper village? The simple yet embarrassing answer is that he's never met a blind person before. Not like this where he had to engage. These people don't feature in his line of work. You need eyes to make or appreciate viusal art. At least that's what he believed until tonight. So he had no idea how to deal with someone like Elio. He'd simply felt helplesss.

The apartment is quiet when he enters. With his height it can be a little tricky in the small hallway so he quickly walks over into the living area where he sets down his bag and drops the keys on the table. They’d chosen this place because of the huge window overlooking StuyTown. Oliver needs the light to work. Of course, his salary from Cooper Union normally wouldn’t pay for a place like this but upon his marriage his family had finally reconciled with him and his choice of occupation. At least he was employed at one of the best art colleges in the US. As his father had opened his heart to Rachel he’d also opened his purse, setting up a monthly allowance for them that helped to finance this place.

“See, Oliver, if I’d known you’d settle down with such an amazing woman in the end we could have buried the hatchet ages ago. All those fights we had about your life choices… what a waste of time now that you found a nice Jewish girl.”

And for peace’s sake Oliver had swallowed his retort. It got him this place which he loves. Where he can work in peace.

That’s why the battered sofa is pushed against the wall and there’s an easel standing in front of the window. Next to it on a cluttered table sit his painting utensils. The room smells faintly of oil paint and turpentine.

Oliver doesn’t stop to look at the canvas currently mounted on the easel. He didn’t touch it in months.

Usually, he would make straight for the sideboard with the Whiskey but drinking with Elio Perlman has him nicely sloshed already so he doesn’t feel the need to numb himself further with alcohol. Instead, he walks over into the small kitchen and peers into the fridge. To his surprise there are eggs, tomatoes and cheese which inspires him to make an omelet.

Fifteen minutes later he sits down on the couch with his plate balanced on his knees and allows himself to look back on the evening.

Yes, it had been a big surprise that Elio was blind. But it had been an even bigger surprise how he dealt with it. Not that Oliver knew many disabled – no, cut that, impaired – people but Elio seemed to be one of a kind. Fierce. Determined. Funny.

Refreshingly unselfconscious. Oliver had seen many sassy boys brazenly walk into the studio just to bolt when he’d asked them to take their clothes off.

But Elio had been different. He didn’t mind. He seemed confident enough in his body, and his condition gave him the chance to act uninhibited.

And what a body that was… he looked even better in the flesh. Black curls, milky skin decorated with patches of dark hair under his arms and between his legs… as he leaned back the muscles in his stomach twitched and those in his thighs flexed, making his flaccid pink cock jump a little, rolling from left to right to rest against Elio’s leg.

Sweet, vulnerable, unashamed.

Oliver’s mouth had watered and he had to adjust himself while the pencil stilled in his hand. The boy was a vision and it was a true challenge to capture his ethereal beauty on paper: The subtle curve of his spine, his tiny yet plush ass, the shadows beneath his hip bone, a constellation of freckles below his collar bone, the dip at the base of his throat, the skin there almost translucent…

All of Oliver’s alarm bells had gone off. Because he’d felt the disturbing impulse to touch those alabaster limbs until they flushed pink, rake his fingers through those glossy curls, sink his teeth into hard muscle to mark...

No! That would have been unprofessional. There were fixed boundaries between artist and model and he wouldn’t cross them, not for real and better not in thought either.

Because Elio was doubly defenceless, totally at his mercy, had to rely on his integrity because they were alone and Oliver was in the position of power while Elio was naked, on full display. And had no idea what was going on, couldn’t read Oliver’s face or see the bulge of his hardening cock in his paint-stained slacks.

This was more than a bit not good.

But Oliver couldn’t stop staring hungrily at his model while his pencil sped up, adding shadows to some parts, highlighting others.

Oliver had outright enjoyed being free to stare. And as it didn’t bother Elio because he didn’t notice – maybe just looking was okay? Deep down, Oliver knew that it was inappropriate, though he wouldn’t be the first artist who fell for his model.

He put the first sheet of paper down, took another, ordered Elio to change position. Now his cock hung heavy between his legs. God, Oliver wanted to see him hard, thighs splayed wide, vacant eyes gazing in his direction… but that was impossible.

Yet his pencil seemed to move on its own…

It was actually quite great that Elio couldn’t see.

No, that sounds wrong.

What Oliver meas is that being unable to notice the scrutinizing looks of the students will allow Elio to act natural, to pose as Oliver tells him, without thinking about how it might be perceived – because he will never be aware of it.

But isn’t that a little bit exploitative?

He really should talk to Rachel about it.

Luckily, it seems that Elio is quite well equipped to stand his ground. As he showed by leaving when Oliver’s questions got too personal… Oliver understands that Elio wants to be as independent as possible and hence refused the offer of a taxi.

He doesn’t want pity. That’s a thing Oliver can relate to. But he also knows that sometimes you have to accept help.

He sighs and stands up, taking his plate back into the kitchen to wash it along with the pan.

His thoughts drift while he does the dishes …

He’s a visual artist. He needs his sight to create his paintings and drawings. He loves to look at beautiful things. So how must it feel to be deprived of these impressions? Unable to see colors, to watch a movie, look at paintings or photographs, at other people’s faces and bodies… How must it be to live in darkness?

But then Elio had told him that his world isn't dark but had been unable to explain to him what exactly he sees – if you can call the sensory input he's able to process 'sight'.

Now Oliver is curious. He walks back into the living room, opens his laptop, types ‘cortical blindness’ into the search bar – and falls down a rabbit hole.

Over the next hours he learns about Blindsight, Retinoschisis, Retinopathy, CRS, ONA… he even uses some simulators to get an idea how the world might look for Elio.

Only, these simulators are based on conditions like cataracts and glaucoma… he can’t find anything that refers to Elio’s impairment.

Still, it’s a shock to him. He tries to imagine to live like that – with black spots blurring his vision, foggy gray areas disrupting his view, the feeling of looking through a steamy window – and being grateful not to be totally without eyesight.

Which seems to be the case for Elio.

It’s already late and the apartment is gloomy. Still, Oliver takes out an old scarf and wraps it around his head…

He knows his flat. There’s not much furniture. Still, after a few careful steps in the dark he walks straight into the table by the window, setting brushes and tubes of paint rattling. Trying to find his bedroom has him march into a wall.

He lasts five minutes before pulling the scarf off, feeling shaken and disorientated even in the small space of his living room.

Time to go to bed.

After crawling under the covers Oliver automatically takes Rachel’s photograph from his nightstand and kisses her face.

“Night, sweetheart.”

Then he stares at the drawings he made of Elio – one reclining on the bench, the other one standing up, his muscles flexing, stark naked, his cock in full view… Oliver is getting hard again and this time there’s no one to stop him as he takes himself in hand and tugs.

It's embarrassingly quick but relaxes him nonetheless. The tension of the day falls away a little (which he usually only accomplishes by drink). Maybe he should just wank more often to the pictures of beautiful teenagers unaware of their seductiveness?

But is Elio truly unaware? Didn’t he say he likes sex… casual hook-ups…

Those have never been Oliver’s thing but so much has changed over the past year that maybe it’s time to try out something new?

But he can’t hook up with Elio when he employs him as his model… that would, apart from other things, betray Cooper Union’s code of conduct.

Maybe he should just wait and see? Maybe he’s just so deprived of human contact, of tenderness and companionship that a few hours in a bar make him dream up imaginary scenarios of him and Elio?

At least they will meet twice each week for the next couple months – that's something, isn't it? Elio being naked most of the time is another incentive. And if he doesn't fuck up again Elio might be willing to go for drinks once more…

Get to know him, Oliver says to himself. We can just talk… and he could look his fill.

Just look.

He falls asleep with his drawings still clutched in his fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Blindsight** is the ability of people who are cortically blind due to lesions in their striate cortex, also known as primary visual cortex or V1, to respond to visual stimuli that they do not consciously see.
> 
> **Retinoschisis** is an eye disease characterized by the abnormal splitting of the retina's neurosensory layers, usually in the outer plexiform layer. Most common forms are asymptomatic, some rarer forms result in a loss of vision in the corresponding visual field.
> 
> **Retinopathy** is any damage to the retina of the eyes, which may cause vision impairment.
> 
> Rubella can cause congenital rubella syndrome in the newborn, the most severe sequela of rubella. The syndrome **(CRS)** follows intrauterine infection by the rubella virus and comprises cardiac, cerebral, ophthalmic and auditory defects. Many mothers who contract rubella within the first critical trimester either have a miscarriage or a stillborn baby. If the fetus survives the infection, it can be born with severe heart disorders, blindness, deafness, or other life-threatening organ disorders.
> 
> Optic nerve atrophy **(ONA)** is degeneration of, or damage to, the optic nerve, a cluster of nerves which carry vision information from the eye to the brain. Causes of ONA include heredity, trauma (including stroke), a tumor, decrease in oxygen or blood supply, infections, or disorders.
> 
> Here's a site that simulates different eye diseases: https://nei.nih.gov/health/examples


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio models for the first time in art class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now nsfw art by the amazing, wonderful [Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed?lang=de)! Thank you so much! I love it.
> 
> We show the sketched version at the beginning. At the end you find the colorized version. Enjoy!

It should have taken Elio only about 45 minutes to get home by subway but he's still agitated when he arrives at Columbus Circle, doesn't pay attention – and ends up on the wrong train. Therefore it's almost midnight when he arrives back at his dorm.

_‘Columbia University is proud to offer individually adjusted accommodation to their special needs students’_ – that's what the brochure said. And it's true, last year saw the opening of a barrier-free new hall of residence for the physically disabled. It's accessible with wheelchairs, equipped with light effects for the hard of hearing and also provides a guiding system for the visually impaired.

Elio and his friends call it Gimp Tower. It feels a bit like a ghetto. He doesn't have to share his room, though. Instead, small groups of students with similar disabilities live together in modern apartments.

The wheelies are on the ground floor. The deaf on the top floor – presumably because they can enjoy the view.

The blind got sandwiched in between.

Elio shares with Nguyen from Vietnam, Bob from Pittsburgh and Chiara – from Italy like himself. Which is nice. They can talk secrets and no one understands. They can overrule decisions on music or food when voting together (though no one usually opposes pasta anyway. That’s not true, however, when it comes to Italian pop music...). Their two flatmates nicknamed them Mussolini after the first week, but it’s a term of affection.

Chiara is also the only one of them who still has partial sight (she's' just' legally blind) which gives her an advantage over everyone else but also puts a burden on her – from sorting the washing to buying the cheapest beer (Elio had to learn the hard way that the shop owners around like to rip off the blind students by withholding the special offers and just selling them the expensive stuff because they can't read the price tags).

It's also Chiara who's still awake when he finally stumbles through the door of his apartment into their kitchen cum living area. Elio jumps a little when he hears her voice.

“Hey, piccino. Where have you been? It’s late. I started to worry.”

Instead of answering her he makes his way over to the fridge. “Is there anything to drink?”

“Left crisper drawer, seven o'clock. I got Peroni.”

“I will marry you one day.” He takes a bottle out and cracks it open. He usually doesn't drink as it makes him tired and interferes with his training but tonight he might even go the whole way now. He's celebrating his new job, after all.

“You’d have to explain that to Liz but whatever – my grandmother would be so pleased.” Liz is Chiara's girlfriend – another thing they bonded over, which had Bob asking if all Italians were gay.

Elio turns in the direction of her voice, sighing in mock disappointment. “Mi si spezza il cuore. Now I will drown my sorrow in drink. Salute.”

“So, where have you been?”

“I got a job. At least I think so.” He's suddenly not so sure anymore because of the way he left. Maybe it had been overdramatic and Professor Weizmann is second-guessing his decision to hire him now?

“What kind of job?” Chiara sounds excited.

“Uhm... it's modeling for art classes.”

She giggles. “Nude?”

“Maybe...” He draws the word out, feeling his face heat a little.

“Oh, Elio, that's great. A real job out there!” She's actually applauding him.

“It's just standing around for two hours...”

“Yeah, but it's not offered or funded by a charity or something, is it? You have a real job in the real world!”

Elio can't suppress a smile. “That's true!” It's not something he got because he can't see. It's also not something he scored because his employer had pity with him. It's a job where his impairment simply doesn't matter. He can pose and students can draw him regardless of his eyesight.

It feels good.

He empties the beer and walks the four steps over to the trash bin. In here he can move around without his cane. Everything has its place and he knows about the distances. For example, it's 22 steps from the kitchen to his room.

“Good night, Chiara.”

“Sleep tight, Elio.”

As he's amiably sloshed he falls asleep immediately.

The next day he has training at nine and feels the drinks he's had the night before. But it doesn't matter – he can't afford to skip lessons. He needs every practice he can get as to not fall behind his sighted peers.

Marzia already waits for him in the lobby of Barnard College.

“Hey, Elio. Good morning. You look like roadkill.”

“Thank god I don't have to see me.”

“Did you have coffee?”

No, he didn't. He just grabbed a bottle of water before leaving as he’d been late already.

“Come on, I’ll get you one. Otherwise you’ll be insufferable.”

The paper cup is empty before they reach the studio. Elio feels a bit better.

They do an hour of barre exercise before there are two hours of Modern Dance. The repetitive routines help Elio to concentrate and focus. He knows the movements by heart so he doesn't need Marzia for this as the teacher can correct him like anyone else.

It's different when it comes to actual dancing. Marzia, who's twenty-three, is already a qualified dancer and dance therapist. When they rehearse on the floor she stands behind him, whispering directions or even touching him to adjust his position.

It's difficult for him to work on ensemble pieces because he can't react spontaneous to his fellow dancers. He has to rely on counting, musical cues, memory – and Marzia. Solos are much easier for him. Right now he's working on the Conrad Variation from Le Corsaire for his first year degree presentation in ballet.

Since the accident, ballet isn't his favorite form of dance anymore, though it's how he started when he was just four. He'd seen the Royal Ballet’s Nutcracker on TV, took a silk chemise from his mother's underwear drawer and twirled and jumped around the old villa until his parents enrolled him at a ballet school in Crema.

But now, being unable to see, it gets harder and harder to keep up, to advance, to hold his balance, with pirouettes for example. Usually, a dancer would find a spot to fix his eyes on to help him do numerous rotations and not to topple over like a sack of potatoes – but that is impossible for him. He has to work solely with his arms, legs and core muscles. Which is very hard and limits him. And he’s really not good when it comes to dealing with frustrations.

He doesn't want people to think that he dances well for a blind dancer. He wants people to think he dances well. Full stop. No, scratch that, not just well – he wants to be exceptional. The best.

So he often overdoes it. That’s when Marzia has to step in – otherwise he could seriously injure himself. He knows she only means well but he usually throws an epic fit anyway, accusing her of mollycoddling him.

To compromise they had agreed that he would concentrate on Modern and Contemporary Dance. It's freer, more fluent, not as strict and limiting as ballet. Right now he's working on a choreography called Interrupted Souls and plans to audition for the Martha Graham school after finishing Barnard.

Sadly, and much to Elio’s annoyance, today is not a good day. Neither he himself not their teacher is satisfied with him as she has to correct his posture more than usual. Elio knows that she does it with everybody, that dance is constant striving for perfection – but he still feels picked on.

_‘Concentrate!’_ He kicks himself mentally, feels his muscles contract and tense in the familiar ways as he stretches his legs, raises his arms, bows down and back until sweat drips down his body.

Everything hurts. More than usual. In the end his quadriceps cramps and he has to stop. Marzia hands him a bottle of water with a magnesia fizzy tablet in it but knows better than to talk to him.

Elio hates it when his body betrays him. Isn't it enough that he can't see? He downs the mixture as Marzia massages his thigh, his lips pressed tightly together.

On their lunch break he hobbles next to her over to the cafeteria where he asks for an apple and an orange.

“You should eat something real.” Marzia chides him.

“You’re not my mum.” He spits back, but asks for a granola bar as well, wolfing it all down as they sit at one of the small, slightly sticky tables.

“So, you went for drinks last night with Professor Weizmann?” Marzia sounds curious.

“Yep. We had a few beers.” Elio is still miffed and doesn't really want to remember last night because, in all honesty, he'd acted childish in storming out. He sees it now. The professor had just been trying to make conversation. And he had overreacted like a prickly diva. As usual. It hadn't been Weizmann’s fault that he'd touched one of Elio's sore spots. One of so many...

“And?”

“And what? He seems nice. Friendly. Smells good. Deep voice.”

When Marzia stays silent he asks: “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Marzia...”

That's when his phone chimes with a text message.

He has a software on it that can read him his emails and chat messages and which can also record his voice and translate it into text – but it doesn't always work correctly (especially the recording function sometimes comes up with the most hideous transcription errors, having been the cause for many awkward phone calls but also for a lot of laughter). It's much easier to just pass his phone over to Marzia for her to read the message out loud.

“Speaking of the devil...It's him. Weizmann: _'Dear Elio'_ “, she reads, “ _'I hope you got home safe last night'_.”

Elio rolls his eyes at that. It’s kind of pointless but it’s his natural reaction.

“ _'I'm sorry if I offended you. It wasn't my intention. I truly acted like a klutz last night. I hope you give me a chance to redeem myself?'_ \- Wow, he's flirting with you.”

“He's not!”

“Oh dear, he is. What happened at that bar? Did he make a pass on you and you turned him down?”

“No! He... it doesn't matter. It was my fault. I... misunderstood.”

“Elio Perlman is acknowledging that maybe he made a mistake? Let me get my diary out, I have to mark this date for eternity.”

“Fuck off, Marzia!” But he grins. “You really think he's flirting?”

“Well, at least he's very eager to make up for whatever he did or said...”

Elio worries his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. “Can you type an answer? _'Dear... Oliver!'_ Or is that coming on too strong, too intimate?” When Marzia just hums he continues: “ _’Sorry for leaving like this. I'm fine. We're cool. See you on Tuesday.'_ Is that okay? Too much? Too little?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” Elio shoots, getting exasperated by her cryptic answers.

“What you want from him.”

“He's my boss!”

“Yeah, a boss you’ll stand in front of naked...”

“It's art!”

“Sure, darling.”

“I really don't know what you're on about, Marzia.”

She hands him his phone back. “Here. Sent.” Her hand squeezes his briefly. “Shall we go back to work?”

Over the weekend, Elio puts in some extra time at the studio with Marzia, she sitting at the side while he rehearses Le Corsaire. On Sunday evening his body screams in agony but they are both satisfied with the progress so far.

On Monday his ballet trainer comments favorably on his legwork and has him show it to the class. Elio feels much better.

Tuesday evening he has to hurry to be in time at Cooper Union as he has training till five. He remembers his way and politely turns Janice down as she offers to guide him again, crashing through the door of the studio classroom only a few minutes to six.

“Professor Weizmann?” He asks.

He becomes aware of furniture shuffling on the wooden floor, voices murmuring. Then he hears the professor.

“Elio! There you are. Come with me, I'll show you where you can undress.” He listens to footsteps coming towards him before a huge hand falls onto his shoulder.

“Uhm, hi. Okay...” Elio turns back to the door but Weizmann pulls him into the opposite direction. His cane gets in the way and hits the professor's leg. “Sorry.” Elio mutters. “You can just tell me where...”

“Okay, sorry, yeah.” It's a little awkward. “Straight ahead. Careful, there are chairs... and people.” The hand is removed, leaving a rapidly cooling patch.

Elio follows the sound of Weizmann’s footsteps until he stops, presumably on the far side of the studio classroom. It's bigger than Elio had thought. Must be nearly 300 square feet. A door creaks open.

“Just walk in here.” The door closes after them. This room is much smaller by the sound of it, smelling of turpentine, dust, laundry detergent, floor polisher and coffee. Elio stands still and slowly turns around his axis.

The professor clears his throat: “Okay, this is not much better than a broom closet but there's a couch here...” Elio turns back to where Weizmann’s voice is coming from. He sounds a little clueless how to handle the reality of Elio’s impairment.

Elio decides to rescue him: “You know, we use the face of a clock.” He stretches his arm out in front of him. The room must be tiny because he makes contact with Weizmann’s chest and quickly steps back. “Ups, sorry again. So, this is twelve o'clock”, he moves his arm a fraction to the right, “one o'clock and so on. If you want to give me a directions you can use that. It's pretty precise.”

“Oh, okay, yes... so, there's a sofa at... ten o'clock, two steps away. You can leave your stuff on it. There's a bathrobe you can wear to walk over into the studio. We wait till you're ready.”

“Cool, thanks, Professor Weizmann.”

“Last time you called me Oliver.” He brushes against Elio as he exits the room.

Elio finds the sofa and sets his backpack and sports bag down before feeling for the robe. Soft terrycloth, smelling faintly of chamomile detergent. It reminds him of... home. Italy. Crema. The villa.

He shakes his head to get rid of those memories. That’s really not what he needs right now.

He quickly sheds his clothes, puts on the dressing gown, takes his cane and only needs thirty seconds to find the door.

Oliver must have waited on the other side because he's suddenly close.

“The podium is on nine o'clock, about ten steps away.” He follows Elio onto it, who feels watched, nervous and a little clumsy “I put a bottle of water to your right. We'll take a break after one hour. Do you want tea or coffee?”

Elio remembers the smell in the closet. It had been good, strong coffee. “Coffee. Just black.”

“Okay, noted. For now I want you to sit on the bench, right ankle on your left knee…”

Oliver seems to wait for something. It takes Elio a moment to get his cue and drop his robe. Here we go...

“Uhm, yeah… thanks. And your right arm… maybe like this?” Oliver takes Elio’s arm and drapes it across his lap. His fingers skim Elio’s ribs and he giggles because it tickles – and to fight his anxiety. This is suddenly way more physical than he imagined.

”Sorry.” Oliver’s warm breath ghosts over Elio’s chest. He can feel his nipples harden and hopes he isn’t blushing too hard. “And with your left hand you could maybe touch your neck? Like this. Beautiful. I mean… the pose. Great. Just stay like this.”

And with that Oliver is gone.

Elio feels kind of exposed. How many people are looking at him? Are they even looking at him? And if so, what do they see? Just a model? Could he be a vase instead or an arrangement of fruit? Or do they see a naked man with all his imperfections, scars, freckles? 

He just hopes they don’t see a cripple.

Elio waits, trying to sit as still as possible until he hears Oliver say: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to drawing for beginners.”

He quickly explains tonight’s assignment: just a simple pencil sketch of the model, with emphasis on light and shadow as well as perspective and proportions. “Only a little warm-up so I can access where each of you stands and what we’ll have to work on.”

Over the next hour Elio is getting more and more self-conscious, up to the point where he seriously contemplates to walk away during the break, to flee and never come back. The only thing that keeps him in place is the thought of the $ 100 he’s earning for this.

So when Oliver approaches him with a mug of strong coffee that he presses into Elio’s waiting hand, leans down and says: “You can relax for a bit. You’re doing great. Everything okay?” 

He answers: “Sure. No problem.” And tries to smile.

“Are you uncomfortable? Cold?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

Yet as if Oliver can read his mind he continues: “I’m sure this feels a little weird but believe me, they just see you as an object. Not in a negative way. But you’re just something they want to draw as good as they can. Of course, that involves to look at you, but they’re just beginners, they’re not advanced enough to truly capture your…”

Oliver falls silent.

“My what?” Elio croaks out, not sure if this explanation actually helping but intrigued nonetheless.

Oliver clears his throat: “A true artist doesn’t just paint what he or she sees. It’s more about capturing a mood, feelings, the essence of the model… It’s a process of insight, discovery, recognition…” He trails of.

For the next hour Elio wonders how Oliver would draw him. It both excites and frightens him. What would his schooled eye catch and show to the world for all to see? 

Elio is used to present himself to people watching. But he usually hides behind a role, a costume, make-up, other people's choreographies… Has he ever expressed himself honestly in dance? Isn't he trying to protect his inner workings instead, keeping his pain and vulnerability, his anger and ambition locked away? Reflecting on these thoughts has him retreat into himself, to the point where he kind of forgets where he is and what he’s doing.

When Oliver starts to collect the drawings at the end of the lesson Elio’s stiff, freezing and needs to piss. But it hasn’t been that bad. Rather meditative, in fact. He emptied his mind, let it drift, and now feels much more relaxed than in the beginning.

Oliver takes his time to talk to the students, gives advice, explains how to accentuate shadows or highlight certain body parts. Elio likes his deep, warm voice but zones out a little as drawing is nothing that interests him. Not even as he'd still been able to see had it held an appeal for him.

Eventually, Oliver ushers the last students out and reminds them that the next class is on Thursday same time. Over the noise of people gathering their stuff and leaving Elio doesn't hear him and startles a little when he's suddenly close: “Let me help you back into the robe.”

Oliver's fingers brush Elio's skin as he drapes the fabric over his shoulders.

“Drinks?” Oliver asks, sounding casual but Elio can sense that he's tense, maybe even nervous.

“Uhm... actually, I really shouldn't drink. Last time, the next day was pretty shit-”

“Okay, sorry, I don't want to-” Oliver's speaking too fast. Elio feels warmth spread in his stomach despite having sat naked on a bench in a huge cold room that the small fan couldn’t really heat today. Because Oliver thinks Elio just turned him down and now panics and backtracks which you only do when the rejection hurts. Right?

“No, I didn't mean...”, Elio interrupts Oliver’s apologies. “Just, no alcohol, okay? But you mentioned a cafeteria where we could get something, maybe more coffee?”

“Yeah, sure, right, yes. Coffee. Good. Coffee is good.” Oliver sounds so relieved it makes Elio smile. “I just... wait, till you got dressed, okay. I wait.”

Elio takes a moment to lean back against the closed door of the storage room, his heart beating fast, butterflies dancing in his stomach.

Because Professor Oliver Weizmann with his huge, strong hands and his warm voice, who smells so nice and is kind and intelligent and patient seems truly keen to spend time with him.

Marzia will really kick his ass tomorrow when she points out that she told him so all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legally blind: To be considered legally blind, your visual acuity must be 20/200 or worse in your better eye while you are wearing corrective lenses.
> 
> This is the part from Le Corsaire Elio is working on: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABH4oBOh_10
> 
> This is the modern dance part he's studying: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8Er99LvsT8


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver slowly get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/search?q=chalamazed&src=typd&lang=de) did it again. Scroll down right to the end of this chapter.

That they have to walk down some truly labyrinthian corridors to reach the cafeteria is a good excuse to put a hand on the small of Elio's back, isn't it? It's even better when Elio folds up his cane, as if he’s giving himself over to Oliver. He’s offered to carry Elio’s backpack so now the gym bag Elio has slung over his shoulder is squashed between them as they move, brushing against Elio’s thigh and Oliver’s knee, simultaneously keeping them apart but also connecting them.

When they have to wait for the lift Elio stands so close Oliver can smell him – male sweat mixed with something lemony and sweet… coconut? Maybe some product for his silky, wavy hair?

As he stares at the fine curls on Elio’s nape Oliver can't prevent his pulse from jumping.

It had been hard to watch Elio pose for the class for two hours. No, he had been hard. Semi-hard at least.

Elio was even more beautiful than he remembered him. Not flawless, though. As Oliver drank him in he noticed things he hadn't during his first sitting: His feet looked gnarled, the toes reddened, heels calloused. He had a scar running up the front of his right shin from his ankle almost to his knee, paled by time so presumably a few years old. There were also bruises to his arms and hip in different shades, from dark purple to fading yellow.

Oliver wanted to kiss each and every one of it. And then he wanted to mark Elio himself with different kinds of bruises.

It had helped to talk to the students, give advice, answer questions to distract himself from the gorgeous boy, stark naked only a few feet away. In between, he'd forced himself to remember the dead rat, belly filled with squirming white maggots, that he'd found under the kitchen sink in his first New York apartment.

That memory dampened his arousal a little.

Until he brought Elio his coffee during the break and their fingers brushed as he handed the mug over...

Shit, he was so fucked.

Elio seemed to have come straight from training. His scent is even headier now in the small confine of the lift in which they are thankfully alone so no one notices Oliver not so subtly adjusting himself.

Thank god Elio can't see Oliver's flushed face right now.

At the cafeteria on the ground floor he leads Elio to a free table, then asks what he can get him.

“How's the coffee here?”

“You don't want to find out.”

Elio pulls a face. “Okay. Do they have orange juice?”

“Sure. Anything to eat?”

“Wow, Professor Weizmann, you're spoiling me.” Oliver blushes even deeper. “A granola bar.”

Oliver has to laugh. “You're a cheap date.” 

As what he’d just said sinks in, Oliver makes a beeline for the counter, grateful that the place is almost deserted at this hour. The students are gone and the staff has their own studios and offices to socialize.

Maybe he could take Elio to his private studio some time soon? It would be just the two of them there…

The woman serving the counter coughs loudly to remind him to place his order.

When he returns to the table with a tray Elio just cocks his head and looks up at him... no, not really looks, Oliver has to remind himself, but shit, his eyes are mesmerizing, dark green, slightly almond-shaped... and right now fixed at some point over Oliver’s right shoulder, a little vacant as he says low and husky: “I'm really not.”

“What?” Oliver pretends not to get what Elio means as liquid heat starts pooling in his belly and he almost drops their beverages.

“A cheap date.” Elio licks his bottom lip and Oliver fears he might have a coronary.

Fucking hell! Oliver's knees turn to jelly as he sinks onto a chair, not caring that he spills some of the juice from its plastic cup, disarmed by Elio’s open flirtation.

Because he surely is flirting, right? It’s been so long that Oliver hardly remembers how it’s done. As he has just proven.

“I got you pomegranate and Italian peach for the granola bar.” He says to stir the conversation back to safer ground, placing the juice and snack in front of Elio. “Your juice is on eleven o’clock.”

As Elio carefully reaches for it Oliver notices lots of little cuts and tiny scars to his fingers. His nails are cut very short. Oliver's own hand hovers close, almost touching. But not quite.

“Oh, the sweet taste of home.” Elio’s face breaks into a bright smile as he rips the package open. Oliver can’t look at him when he takes the first bite, stuffing half the muesli bar into his cherry-red mouth.

“Is that a good thing? I gathered from our last conversation that family isn't something you like to talk about.” He swallows as he waits for Elio's reaction.

But he just happily chews. “Yeah, sorry about that. I shouldn't have been drinking... that day was just wild. Training, coming here, applying for that kind of job – and getting it.” Elio is smiling brightly. “Then going out with my boss…”

Is Elio still flirting? Did his voice dropped as he said boss?

Whatever, Oliver decides not to change the subject, aware that it might still be a minefield. He wants to know more about this boy, who he is, get to his core to capture his essence, lay bare what makes him tick. It might be sensitive ground but Oliver can’t help it. He’s fascinated, maybe even a little obsessed. “So, you're from Italy?” 

“Yeah, but I'm also French, Jewish, American... My dad was from Chicago, my mother from France. We lived in Rome most of the year apart from twelve miserable months we spent in London when I was ten. I was the happiest in the summers we stayed at an old Villa near Crema.” Something passes over his face, a wistful serenity Oliver hadn’t sensed before in him. He seems so full of life, living the moment in the here and now. Except when he's posing nude. Then he freezes to something strongly resembling a marble statue.

“That was... before... of course.” It's barely a whisper. Oliver's not sure he's heard right when Elio falls silent, absentmindedly touching his temple, his expression closing off.

'Do something, Oliver! He's slipping. Don’t let him dwell on his fate.' “Crema?” He asks as chipper as he can.

“It's near Milan.” Elio visibly seems to pull himself together, trying to get back into making small talk.

“Oh, I've lived in Milan for a few months during my student years. I was enrolled at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Brera.”

“My dad loved that place. The Pinacoteca. He could spend hours there. I sneaked out to the observatory.” There it is again, that hint of nostalgia. When Oliver becomes aware that Elio will never again be able to see the night sky and its stars he swallows thickly.

“Italy is so beautiful. I really want to go back there some time.” He sighs, affected by Elio’s melancholy. Because he has lost something as well that he will never get back, no matter how hard he wishes for it.

“Why haven't you?”

“Well, I had a lot on my plate lately.”

They seem to be able to decode each other's sore spots better not to be touched because now it’s Elio who doesn't insist Oliver elaborates.

“I'm going this summer.” He says instead.

“Lucky you.” 

But he doesn't look too happy.

“I have to. There are things I need to settle. I'll send you a postcard.” 

“Please!”

Elio takes a sip of his juice and Oliver blows on the tea he got for himself. He knows it will taste like cat piss but it’s actually preferable to the coffee down here. That’s why he has his own coffee brewer up in the storage room adjourning to the studio classroom.

“So, what do you think of the class. Are they any good?” Oliver realizes that Elio is deliberately stirring their conversation away from personal matters and goes with it.

“Some are. Some just don't have the eye yet. But it’s my job to help them improve. That's what I signed up for as a teacher. Drawing is a basic technique they have to master, whatever they want to do later.”

“You don't need drawing to make video installations.” Elio protest.

“You do. Because first you'll draw up a sketch of your project to get funding. And if that looks like shit you simply won't get any money. Drawing is basic, the foundation.”

Elio seems to mull this over. “Yeah, okay. Fair. Like ballet for dance. But still, Warhol made millions with his serialized screen prints with just very limited painting skills. And anyway, isn’t there software that can draw your stuff for you?”

“Warhol was a very talented graphic designer before he branched out. You need to know the rules and be able to master the techniques before you can break them and do something new. Otherwise your art is meaningless as you don’t even know what you rebel against. And that goes for Krita or other paint programs as well.”

“Are you truly that conservative? Isn’t that just boring and outdated? Maybe you’re just afraid that these new things could make you redundant?”

They launch into an intense discussions about art, its purpose and if you need to school your talent or if anyone can be a dilettante. Elio has strong opinions and is not afraid to voice them. He speaks with his hands in a very Mediterranean way, his eloquent gestures a delight for Oliver to watch. Therefore, he’s surprised when he realizes that the staff starts to loudly gather the chairs and mop the floor around them.

“Are they closing? What time is it?” Elio asks, sounding as perplexed as Oliver feels.

“Uhm, it must be almost ten. Sorry for keeping you.”

“No, not at all. That was... nice.” Elio is already shouldering his bag he had put by his feet and Oliver gets up and hands him his backpack.

Their hands brush again.

“Yeah. Yes, it was. Can I walk you to your station?”

This time, Elio accepts.

When Oliver has seen Elio safely off, seated inside a subway carriage, holding onto his cane, head held high, he returns to Cooper Union to tidy up the studio classroom, gather discarded sketches and wash their mugs. The robe Elio has worn earlier is thrown onto the sofa. Oliver runs his hands over the soft fabric before he presses his nose against the terrycloth to inhale Elio's scent.

God, he already misses him, his breathy laugh, his intelligent arguments, his pale skin coloring a little when he tries to make a point, his long fingers dancing through the air to add emphasis to his sentences.

They fall into an easy routine, going to the cafeteria each Tuesday and Thursday, staying until closing time. When they get swept out Oliver walks Elio to the subway. After a week Elio keeps his cane folded in his bag, his hand placed on Oliver's arm instead.

Elio trusts him. It feels so good that Oliver can't stop a broad, proud smile breaking out on his face.

They talk about art, traveling, music, books. But nothing too personal. Elio is smart and not afraid to utter a controversial opinion ('Jonathan Franzen sucks, man! Big time.') which leads to interesting, captivating and sometimes borderline silly conversations.

“How do you even read all this stuff? Is it put in braille?” Oliver asks one evening, impressed by Elio’s literary knowledge.

“Ha, my braille’s shit. I was too old when I had to learn it so I never got the hang of it. Despite, those braille books are thick like bricks, and heavy. Nothing you'd want to take to bed with you or on the train...”

“So, how-?”

Elio makes a face as if Oliver is truly daft, actually rolls his eyes and then says slowly: “Ever heard of audio-books?”

Oliver snorts a laugh. “Sorry, I'm an idiot.”

“Sometimes.” Elio grins.

Oliver loves his grin, his smile, his laugh. It lights up his whole face. He scrunches his nose, two lovely dimples forming in his cheeks.

Speaking of his cheeks…

Watching him modeling hasn't gotten any easier. Especially as Oliver is trying out more challenging poses – for the benefit of his students, of course: Elio lying down, legs spread a little, one arm behind his head, for example. Oliver stared at the fine dusting of chestnut hair in his armpit – and yes, at other places - until a student had to repeat her question twice.

The next lesson he’d decided they would only have to draw Elio’s rear view. Big mistake. That ass should be illegal. It’s so firm and hard that Oliver’s sure Elio could crack nuts with it… shit, that image in his head isn’t something he needs in public.

It doesn't make it easier that he has to look at forty sketches of a naked Elio afterwards... some are so good that he snaps a pic of them and stares at them at home in bed while touching himself. It's pathetic and sad but he can't help it.

Those evenings with Elio become the highlight of his week. He looks forward to them all day – and ends them secretly making love to the boy the only way he dares.

It’s like an addiction. And as with a drug, Oliver soon realizes that he needs more. More Elio.

Three weeks into Elio's employment Oliver works up the courage to casually suggest taking Elio to the MoMa. Meeting outside of work, even if it's just going to a museum, feels like a huge step - in the right direction. Because Elio has been asking a lot of questions about art and paintings. And because a trip to the museum can be viewed as somewhat innocent - when to Oliver it is really anything but. Yet he can cover his true motivations with the pretext of just giving Elio more insight into the profession he's engaging with through his modeling work.

When Elio accepts Oliver feels elated but at the same time close to panicking.

Maybe that's why he reacts too slow later that evening? Oliver doesn't see it coming because he talks about the Expressionist movement while reveling in Elio clutching at his arm. He’s happy - and so lost in his element that he doesn’t watch out.

A guy dashing down the stairs at the subway station to catch his train runs into Elio, who's hanging onto Oliver's elbow, not touching the railing. While the guy sprints on, shouting an apology over his shoulder, Elio spins, stumbles, topples over headfirst, literally blindly reaching for Oliver - but it's no use, the impact has dislodged his grip... and Elio falls. Oliver watches as if in slow motion, instinctively extending an arm, catching Elio around his waist just before his hands and knees hit the dirty concrete steps.

“Fuck!” Elio wheezes. He weighs next to nothing, Oliver realizes, as he lifts him up in an attempt to shelter him from passers-by jostling around them, some shoving him in the back.

Oliver automatically pulls Elio close and he clings to him, wrapping his long arms around his shoulders. It takes a moment for Oliver to notice that he's shaking.

“Asshole!” Oliver shouts after the guy who caused this but he's long gone. Elio is still trembling and Oliver holds him, sliding his bags off him that got entangled around his body in an uncomfortable way, the straps cutting into Elio's neck.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Come on, sit down.” Oliver doesn't want to let go of Elio but he has the distinct feeling that Elio's legs are about to give out from shock. He lowers him onto the stairs and crouches in front of him. People stare at them but Oliver doesn't care.

Elio is white as a sheet.

“Hey, did you tear anything?” Oliver touches his shoulders, then moves down to his thighs, calves, ankles as gently as he can. He feels Elio's lean, wiry muscles and wishes it was under different circumsatnces.

Slowly, Elio stretches his feet, rubs his hands down his legs as if following Oliver’s path.

“No, I... fuck! I hate this!” He balls his hands into fists and punches his thighs, hard. Again. And again. He looks on the verge of crying.

“Don't...” Oliver takes both of Elio's hands in his – so much larger than Elio's – and starts to rub them.

“I hate being so... frail, incapable... So helpless. Do you know how often I walk into things? Burn my fingers? Cut myself? Bump into people? I'm fucking useless!” Elio spits the last word out and it almost breaks Oliver's heart.

“Hey, don't talk like this. You're amazing. Independent. Fearless.” He gently opens Elio's fingers, strokes his palms. “Do you know, after we first met... I wrapped a scarf around my head, to experience the world like you must do. It was... terrifying. I was disoriented and it scared the shit out of me. And I was just at home. You navigate this big city alone, completely in the dark, on your own. I admire your strength, your courage.”

“Ha, if you only knew... most of the time I'm so busy concentrating where I step that I don't have time to be afraid. All it does is giving me a headache. But sometimes... the feeling that someone is behind you, following you, aware that you can't see them... it's fucking weird. Sorry, I'm whining...” Elio tries to smile but it looks like a grimace. “I should get going.” But he's not moving.

“Let me get you a taxi, okay. Just this once.”

“No, I don't need-” But his protest sounds only half-hearted at best.

“I'm not letting you go home on your own like this. No, don't say anything, except 'Yes, Oliver'.”

“Yes, Oliver.” Elio parrots, lowering his head. “But you have to lend me some money, I only have-”

“I'm paying, you idiot. Come on.” He pulls Elio to his feet and slings an arm around his shoulder, picking up his bags with his free hand to guide him out of the station and back onto the street.

Elio is surprisingly pliant, walking closer to him than usual, almost snuggling up to Oliver. He takes his time to find a free taxi, offering Elio a cigarette to sooth his nerves. They stand under the marquee of a deli, smoking, until Elio coughs.

“I usually don’t do this.” He waves the hand holding the cigarette.

“I seem to have a bad influence on you.” Oliver teases.

When Elio giggles he sounds like himself again.

“I'm not complaining.”

And for once, his eyes seem to meet Oliver's. It's a bit of a shock and Oliver has to remind himself that it doesn't mean anything. That Elio can't see him, no matter how it looks – and feels.

Oliver has no idea what to say to Elio’s simple statement. The moment stretches, wrapping them both in silence on that busy sidewalk until Elio drops the stub and puts his hands into his pockets.

“I should really go home.”

“Sure, sorry.”

Oliver stops the next cab that passes, handing over a few bills while Elio gives directions.

“Goodnight.” Oliver closes the car door before Elio can say anything more, then walks back to Cooper Union.

That night Oliver spends at his studio, vigorously sketching Elio's face as he remembers him gazing up, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, until he's satisfied that he has captured the eerily haunting beauty of Elio Perlman as good as he’s capable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did mention that this is slow burn, right?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They circle and circle around each other, one step forward, two steps back... but somewhere in between there occur some rather awkward attempts at flirting.  
> Oh, and they go to the MoMa together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed some lines from the CMBYN film script :)

Art by [Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed)

After the icebreaker of his first time modeling, Elio begins to feel more and more at ease with posing in front of class over the next few weeks. Though he keeps his distance – as do the students. Only once a girl tries to talk to him, telling him that her best friend is blind as well. Elio nods politely but does neither encourage her nor truly engage.

He’s aware that the students usually move out of his way when he arrives to let him pass, but otherwise not even greet him as if him being unable to see them exempts them from showing basic courtesy.

He knows that most people are usually a little scared of him. No, not of him, of his disability. They don't know what to do, how to react. Should they mention the obvious like _'Oh, you can't see'_? Should they treat him like everyone else? Some are curious but think it's rude to ask questions (truth be told it sometimes is... I mean, why would you ask someone how he manages to hit the toilet bowl when pissing?). In general, Elio being different makes people uneasy. And to avoid this unease most people tend to avoid him.

Elio knows this, maybe even understands to a degree that otherness scares people – doesn't mean it's his job to make them relax. He didn't choose his impairment – it's not his fault. So why should he feel responsible to help people deal with it when most of the time it's hard enough to cope for him himself?

But when Elio asks Oliver why he thinks he’s met with some kind of reserve in class he gets a surprising answer: “Oh, I don't think it's because you're blind. Students generally shy away from the models... you know, they have to look at you, naked, exposed, something they would usually do in a much more intimate situation if at all. I think they feel kind of ashamed that they stare at you, take your body apart. So they can only do that when they regard you as an object, not as entirely human.”

Elio thinks about this a lot. Does he have a problem with being objectified? Well, not really, at least not by people he doesn't know. And still, it feels a little odd, so he’s glad he can talk things through with Oliver.

He truly enjoys their evenings spend drinking juice and rotten tea. Oliver's really fucking smart and funny, but also sensitive, curious, generous both with his time and knowledge.

Elio most likes to listen to him gushing about his favorite paintings, describing their details to him. As he can't look at art any longer he needs others to channel that experience. Only, most people just say things like 'well, there's a house, it's red, and some trees in the background'...

Oliver talks technique, layers of paint, the stroke of the brush. With him it's not just 'red' but crimson, scarlet, maroon... He knows things about the artists, when and why they created a piece. And he rather describes the mood of a picture than what's to be seen in it. For example, he calls Turner's and Delacroix's style hazy, vague, like an early summer morning when you're still half asleep, gazing over a deserted beach into the already sunny mist. Francis Bacon on the other hand is brutal, violent, bloody, centered around the flesh, not hiding the ugliness of the human body but instead dragging its shortcomings into the limelight.

“Whom do you prefer?” Elio asks.

“Neither. I'm a fan of early European Expressionists... The Blue Rider, Die Brücke. They're so fresh, their lines strong, evolving into the abstract... We should see some of them at the MoMa... sorry, I didn't mean actually see... Well, anyway, I could take you? Sometime?”

Elio likes the idea and they make plans and arrange to meet but then someone runs into him at the subway station and he nearly falls down the stairs and that makes him realize once again how helpless he is, how frail. What does Oliver see in him? Elio doesn't want to be his charity project.

Better keep it professional. Don't get too invested. Keep your distance like the students do with him. Oliver is his boss, after all, and probably only spending time with him out of a sense of duty mixed with amorphous guilt and pity.

So, when Oliver mentions their trip to the museum again the following Thursday and tries to fix a date, Elio stalls. No, he's busy on the weekend. And during the week as well. Training, rehearsals... he gives a non-committal shrug.

He hears Oliver exhale, slowly.

“Okay, sorry, forget I asked. I don't want to bring you into a situation that feels... weird to you. Creepy.”

Shit! Oliver sounds so… disappointed? “Uhm, no... that's not...”

“It's okay. I really understand. This is just a job to you. I sometimes get carried away... I only thought... well, forget it.”

That's not what Elio had expected. “You're not creeping me out, Oliver. It's just... why do you want to spend even more time with me? I mean, it's pretty great that we sit together twice a week and... talk... the way we do. You must have better things to do with your evenings than explaining art to someone who can't truly appreciate it. It's not... don't get me wrong, I enjoy this. I learn a lot. But you don't have to do this. Or more. Or anything, really. I feel like I'm getting clingy.”

“Clingy?” Oliver echoes.

“Yeah... and also, the last time, when you had to catch me, remember? That was so embarrassing. I'm so use-”

“Don't you dare say that again!” Oliver hisses, grabbing Elio's left hand, squeezing it gently. “Some asshole ran you over. It wasn't your fault. Nothing to do with your condition is your fault. And when you think I'm doing this because I feel sorry for you, then you're wrong. I admire you.”

“What?” Elio snorts a laugh. “But I'm just-”

“Smart, curious, talented, funny...”

“Go on.” Elio grins.

“Nah, might get to your pretty head.”

“Oh, I'm pretty as well?” Elio easily switches into flirting mode until he remembers that Oliver is his employer and this might not be appropriate. “Ups, sorry, that came out wrong.” He feels for his glass on the table with his free hand and nearly knocks it over, spilling sticky juice onto the table. “See, I'm fucking clumsy.”

Oliver is silent for a long moment. If he wasn't still holding Elio's hand he'd think he'd left.

“Hey, everything alright?” Elio asks eventually.

“You really are pretty.” Oliver's thumb strokes the inside of Elio's wrist and his pulse speeds up. Then Oliver's fingers are suddenly gone. “But you're also right. We shouldn't meet outside of this. I shouldn't have suggested it.”

“Uhm... okay...” Now that Oliver is backtracking Elio is suddenly not so sure he wants him to.

“What?” Is that exasperation in Oliver’s voice?

“Nothing. It’s just... On second thoughts I think I would really enjoy visiting the MoMa with you. I've never been.”

“But you said we shouldn't?” Oliver sounds utterly confused by now.

“I never said that.” Elio protests. God, some men are so thick!

“Sorry, Elio, I'm really not good at this.”

“At what? Going to museums with pretty boys?” Careful, Elio! Don't freak him out. But he can’t help it, it’s fun to provoke Oliver.

“Yes. I usually don't do things like that.” Oliver deadpans.

Elio is tempted to continue playing dumb and tease him but he can sense that Oliver is out of his comfort zone here. “Listen, we'll just go to an exhibition. Maybe get lunch afterwards. That's all.”

Oliver needs a moment to answer. “Okay.”

Elio smiles. “Fine. Great. How about Sunday?”

“But you said-”

“Change of plans.”

When Elio leaves Oliver on the platform half an hour later he suddenly leans in and up – how tall is this man? - as the train arrives, his free hand searching for Oliver's face. He just wants to brush his fingers over his cheek, his jaw, to get an idea what he looks like – does he have a beard, wrinkles, greasy or dry skin? – but somehow his fingers get entangled in short, thick hair and he pulls instinctively, sensing that Oliver’s face must be very close. On an impulse, as stubble scrapes his temple, Elio turns his head and pecks Oliver on the cheek. He feels Oliver's body heat and smells his cologne as he whispers “Good night, till Sunday,” before the crowd of fellow passengers swallows him.

He receives a voice message from Oliver while he's still on the train but waits to listen to it until he's in his room, alone.

“Siri, play the latest message.”

_'Good night, Elio.'_ Oliver's voice is even deeper than usual. _'I just wanted to tell you... I really don't have anything better to do than spending my time with you. See, it even rhymes.' _He chuckles._ 'Sorry, that was terrible. I just need you to know... you're not clingy at all. I enjoy every minute with you. Uhm... yes... I hope that's not too much information? Please, tell me if it gets too much, okay? See you on Sunday.'_

Elio tells Siri to repeat the message until he falls asleep.

When he cancels training with Marzia for Sunday on the next day she sounds peeved.

“Why're you ditching me? Did something better come up?”

“Uhm... it's to do with my job...” It's not a complete lie.

“Your job? Or Professor Weizmann?” Marzia's suddenly not that angry anymore, grabbing his arm instead to prevent him from escaping her interrogation.

“How about both?”

“Okay, I can deal with that. But you have to tell me everything afterwards. In epic detail.”

“Promised.” Elio grins and Marzia swats him over the head with what feels like one of her point shoes.

Elio doesn't need long to get dressed on Sunday morning. He always wears black – because it's the easiest. When he was younger his aunt sewed different labels into his clothes: a triangle for the color red, a round patch for blue, a square for green... but since he's moved to the US he just buys everything in black so he doesn't have to think about what goes with what: black hoodies, black jeans, black shirts, black track suit bottoms, black socks, black underwear, black leotards.

When he spills something – which happens more often than he likes to admit – it’s not that obvious.

He also thinks black looks artsy. And it suits him. At least both Chiara and Marzia say so. Marcus did as well but he was a liar through and through so he doesn't count.

Why is he thinking of Marcus before meeting Oliver? That's not a good sign.

Oliver is already there when Elio arrives at the MoMa, greeting him outside. Elio likes that. He hates waiting for people, unable to see them approach. The uncertainty if and when they’ll come always makes him really nervous.

It's still early, just after 10:30, so it's not too crowded. As Elio is a student at Barnard College, which is associated with Columbia University, he gets in for free anyway – but that would still leave Oliver paying the horrendous ticket price of $ 25. So Elio presents his certificate of disability and tells the ticket desk that Oliver is his required carer which gets him in for free.

“You better buy me lunch for those $ 25.” He grins as Oliver guides him to the lifts with a hand on the small of his back.

“I thought you don't eat?”

“I do on Sundays. I told you, I'm not a cheap date.”

“Well, you just saved me $ 25 so I beg to differ.”

The desk had also offered Elio an audio guide and plastic gloves so he can touch some of the objects.

“Kinky.” He swats the gloves against his thigh which makes Oliver inhale sharply. Interesting.

They exit on the fifth floor where the German Expressionists are on view. For the next hour Elio listens to Oliver describe those paintings that he clearly loves: Franz Marc's Blue Horses ( _'they look so alive, wild, graceful'_ ), Macke's landscapes ( _'so colorful, almost naive'_ ), Kandinsky's Improvisations ( _'shapes are blurring, it's becoming just color, images are kind of disintegrating, like looking through a prism'_ ). It's fascinating and really gives Elio an idea of the essence of those pictures, of their deeper meaning.

Elio can especially relate to Kandinsky's art theory that paintings should be accessible through all the senses and the mind as Oliver explains it, mentioning the artist’s friendship with Schoenberg.

“He started to associate sounds with colors, for example. And painted what he heard, interpreting Schoenberg’s music through his art.”

It's not so different from what Elio does with dancing.

He can also get the fragmentation of shapes as the paintings become more and more abstract. It's the same with him. He remembers colors, shapes, but it starts to fade, morphing into increasingly vague representations of the real things.

Sadly, he's not allowed to touch the paintings, but he nonetheless feels a strong connection.

After an hour, though, Oliver's voice is getting hoarse and Elio has trouble concentrating. As the gallery is filling with people they retreat to the cafe on level 5. It's a fine day and they decide to sit on the terrace. Oliver orders a panini and white wine while Elio chooses a salad and a water.

“Don't say it.” Elio laughs as he reaches out to feel for a chair while Oliver is carrying their tray. “This wasn't exactly cheap.”

“Do you sometimes eat real, solid food as well?” Oliver's chair scrapes over the concrete floor.

“I'm a dancer. I have to be careful with my weight.”

“You weigh next to nothing.”

“That's not true... but anyway, you don't want to see your Prince Siegfried clump and thud on stage like an elephant.”

“Whom?”

“Swan Lake, you philistine.” Elio shakes his head and stuffs greens in his mouth – lettuce, tomato, an olive. Eating is always somewhat of a surprise for him. Maybe that's why he's not too keen on it?

“But you don't have... I don't know... some kind of eating disorder?” Oliver asks somewhat brusque, sounding a little worried.

Elio almost spits out his a mouthful of half-chewed leaves. “I might be on a diet, but I'm not anorexic. I don't stick a finger down my throat after each meal, if that's what you're insinuating.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm not saying this doesn't happen – but not with me. I've enough to deal with, I don't need starving myself on top of it.”

“Good. Would be a shame.”

Elio kicks Oliver under the table and is pleased when he actually hits him. He leans back in his chair and raises his face into the sun.

“I love this, Oliver.” He sighs, feeling utterly content.

“Us, you mean?” Oliver asks back, making Elio smile again.

“It's not bad.”

Oliver doesn't respond for a whole minute. The silence becomes heavy, tense. “Elio...whatever's going on...”

“ _Is_ something going on, Oliver?” He leans over, placing his elbows on the table. “You tell me?”

“Elio.” Oliver sighs. “It would be utterly wrong.”

“Would?” He teases.

“You're unbelievable.” Oliver chuckles and Elio's heart swells. But what does he really want? Is he ready for someone like Oliver? Who seems kind and honest but also somewhat withdrawn, as if holding something back?

Oliver clears his throat. “Are you finished?”

“Are _you_?”

“This is the weirdest lunch I had in a long time.”

“I hope that's good?”

“It kinda is.” He sounds amused but also a little uneasy.

Elio stays seated and plays with his audio guide while Oliver gets rid of their tray. He touches Elio's shoulder when he returns and Elio puts his own hand on Oliver's larger one.

“Better now?” Oliver squeezes his arm.

Elio traces the veins on the back of Oliver's hand. “So, if I wasn't working for you... would I stand a chance?”

Suddenly, Oliver seems very close. Did he bow down? He must have, because he breathes in Elio's ear: “I would kiss you if I could.”

“But you can.” Elio turns his face towards him, waits.

He senses Oliver pull back. “No, we can't. So far, we've done nothing to be ashamed of. I want to be good.”

“But _I_ don't.” Elio pouts.

“I think we should go.” Oliver's right hand takes Elio's to pull him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Actually, now I want to show _you_ something.” Elio says in the elevator. “Can we get off on the second level?”

“Sure.”

As they exit Elio unfolds his cane and follows the instruction from the audio guide until they reach the Impressionist section.

“There should be a painting by Monet. Trees in the foreground and a small, white Italian town in the background. It's called View of Bordighera. Can you spot it?” Elio asks.

“Yeah, on three o'clock.”

Elio walks in the direction and Oliver follows him.

“Okay, stop.”

Elio stands, tilting his head to the side. “I remember looking at it in one of my dad's books. He had this huge volume on Monet. It somehow reminded me of the view of our villa from the surrounding hills.” He quietly slips on one of the plastic gloves he'd stuffed into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Am I close enough to touch?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a guard somewhere?”

“No.”

Elio stretches out his arm and Oliver doesn't stop him. The paint feels thick, crusty even through the plastic sheath. He follows a deep indention with the tip of his index finger, just for a second, before he pulls back. No one saw.

“I really miss our house.” He whispers. The warm sun on his back, the grass under his bare feet, the old wooden staircases creaking as he ran them up and down. The orchard, the sweet smell of peaches, cherries, apples... he would have gone back there a long time ago if the villa wasn't inhabited by ghosts and filled with painful memories.

Ghosts he's probably old enough to face now. Memories he needs to work through if he ever wants to truly heal.

Oliver must be standing close because Elio can sense his warmth, feel his breath on his neck. Yet he's not touching him.

“It's beautiful. Bold lines, but graceful. The colors seem to reflect the sun. It's like sitting in a shady grove, staring out into the sun-drenched world... all is quiet, like at mid-day when everyone's resting...”

“Yes, that's how I remember it.”

They stay for a while until a group of loud German tourists interrupts their contemplation.

They don't talk as they take the elevator to the ground floor. But when they are outside, about to say good-bye, Oliver suddenly takes Elio's hand again and pulls him close.

“Please, you have to understand. It's not that I don't want to but... it's complicated.”

“It always is.” Elio replies, trying to suppress his nagging frustration. What was he thinking? That someone like Oliver would seriously consider hooking up with someone like him? And yet he's definitely sending mixed signals.

For example when he implores: “Just give it time, okay?”

What the hell is Elio to make of this? He's unable to acknowledge subtlety. He literally can't read between the lines. He has to know what's going on, what Oliver wants from him. He can't cope with neither sugar-coating nor cryptic confessions.

“I told you I'm not the romantic type.” Elio tries to soften the remark with a grin, because he desperately needs to lighten the mood or he will lose it in public. “I have to go. Thank you for a... very interesting morning, Oliver.”

This time it's Oliver who quickly kisses his cheek as they part. Elio is glad that he doesn't accompany him to the subway station. He needs time alone, to think.

I made the MoMa better than it is. It's true that Columbia students go in for free but I didn't find any discounts for disabled visitors and their carers. But as this is normal where I am from (that a disabled person goes in for free and can take a carer for free as well) I wanted to apply it here as well. Teh thing with the gloves is true, though only for special occasions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made the MoMa better than it is. It's true that Columbia students go in for free but I didn't find any discounts for disabled visitors and their carers. But as this is normal where I am from (that a disabled person goes in for free and can take a carer for free as well) I wanted to apply it here as well. The thing with the gloves is true, though only on special occasions.
> 
> Here are a few of the paintings / artists mentioned:
> 
> Delacroix's: https://www.sammlung.pinakothek.de/de/artist/eugene-delacroix/der-tod-der-ophelia  
> Turner: https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/turner-waves-breaking-against-the-wind-n02881  
> Bacon: https://www.francis-bacon.com/paintings  
> Franz Marc: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datei:Franz_Marc_005.jpg  
> August Macke: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/August_Macke  
> Wassily Kandinsky: https://www.schoenberg.at/index.php/de/schoenberg-kandinsky-blauer-reiter-und-die-russische-avantgarde 
> 
> I don't know if they are on view at the MoMa... 
> 
> I do know however that _View of Bordighera_ isn't. It's at the Hammer Museum hahaha: https://hammer.ucla.edu/blog/2018/05/where-are-they-now-monets-view-of-bordighera/


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a beginning of something...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for more than 100 subscriptions to this story! I love all the love this fic gets!

The visit to the MoMa has both been groundbreaking but also left them in a kind of limbo. They seem to be stuck. They talk, Oliver stares, they sit or stand close, sometimes their arms or legs touch – but nothing else happens. It’s not that there are no sparks flying – but somehow neither of them is able to take the next step. In all honesty, Elio is maybe just waiting for Oliver to make a move. He’s technically his employee, he’s the younger, he’s… no, not helpless, Elio Perlman certainly is anything but… and yet, his impairment makes him kind of fragile in Oliver’s eyes, even if he would surely hate Oliver telling him as much.

Oliver simply wants to protect him.

So, it’s up to Oliver to lead them out of not quite the friendzone they are in right now – only… how? How do you chat up a disabled teenager who works for you – without feeling like a completely manipulative, predatory creep?

Rachel would’ve probably known the answer, would kick his ass and get him out of his head… but Rachel isn’t here anymore.

And so Oliver stalls, waits, dithers.

Until one Thursday night at the end of April, when he returns from the subway to tidy up the studio classroom and discovers that Elio has forgotten his gym bag in the storage room. He takes it home and vows not to open it but does it anyway, making his way straight to his bedroom. 

The clothes are a little damp and reek of sweat.

He buries his face in a flimsy crop top while jerking off; being completely surrounded by Elio's scent is intoxicating.

Oliver’s so turned on that he can’t prevent shooting a thick load of spunk all over the t-shirt. Fuck! He drops it on the floor, zips the bag back shut and finally calls Elio to tell him that he got his gear so he doesn’t have to search for it. He's still a little breathless when he says: “Sorry for calling this late but I just wanted to tell you that I have your stuff. You forgot your dance clothes...”

“Oh, yeah, I realized on the train.” Elio sounds calm, collected, not in the least worried. “I already called you but you didn’t answer.”

Oliver blushes. ‘I couldn’t answer my phone because I was rubbing one out fantasizing about you, my nose buried in your smelly t-shirt.’ He feels like a pervert.

“I took the bag home with me so the cleaners won't nick it or something.” Oliver blurts out instead.

“Who'd nick a bag of dirty washing?” Elio laughs. If he only knew... Oliver would love to dive head first into his hamper, smell his shirts, his leotards, his underwear...

God, the image of Elio in a leotard makes him hard again. Is he seventeen?

“Though it has my favorite leotard in it…” Can that boy read his thoughts? Right now Oliver's sure that he's the devil incarnate.

“Your favorite… leotard. Yeah, of course. I can… bring it around?” He offers. “To your place. Tomorrow?”

“No, you don't have to-”

“It's no trouble at all-”

“Maybe meet me during lunchbreak at Barnard-”

“I have class all day but maybe in the evening-”

They talk over each other until they both fall silent. Oliver can hear Elio breathe down the line.

“I'll be home by eight tomorrow evening.” Elio gives him the address and apartment number. “The front desk will buzz you in.”

“Okay. Great. Good night.”

“Thank you, Oliver.”

It's almost another date, Oliver thinks as he disconnects the call and falls back onto the bed. He’ll visit Elio at home, see how he lives. It’ll be kind of private; they won’t be surrounded by other people like usually at class, the cafeteria or even at the MoMa

Oliver arrives ten minutes early the next evening and asks for Elio Perlman at the reception of the hall of residence. The woman manning it makes a phone call, then tells him to wait as Elio will come down to get him.

After an elevator arrives Oliver hears the by now familiar ‘click-click’. As he looks up, Elio is turning a corner, his cane following an indentation in the floor that guides him over to the front desk.

“Oliver?” He asks into the open space and Oliver quickly steps up.

“I'm here. And here's your stuff.” He places the strap of the gym bag – missing one crop top – into Elio's free outstretched hand.

“Thank you. I would have got it myself but... well, yeah. Here you are. Would you like to come up and see my place?” He talks a little too fast which makes Oliver's heart flutter.

“Sure.”

Elio turns back to the lift. “Follow me.” He says over his shoulder.

The doors to the elevator are extra-wide. “Is this a specially designed building?” Oliver asks.

Elio’s fingertips slide over the control panel and push a button.

“Yeah, it's a dorm for disabled students. Which makes things a lot easier for me.”

A metallic female voice tells them that they've reached the fourth floor. Another indentation runs along the wall of the corridor, leading up to the apartments, the pattern in the floor covering changing in front of the doors, making Elio’s cane rattles over it. 

He stops in front of number 412 and suddenly seems unusually tense, hesitating to unlock the door, fumbling with his key card. “My flatmates are... well, just don't mind them. They're nice and great but... they keep teasing me about my job… and you... so, better not pay them too much attention, okay? It only encourages them.” When Elio swallows his Adam's apple bobs.

“Okay...” Oliver's not sure what to make of this.

But he has no more time to worry as Elio pulls his shoulders back and pushes the door open.

“Okay everyone, this is Professor Oliver Weizmann.” Oliver didn't expect an outright welcome committee but here it is in a dimly lit kitchen combined living room: A young blond woman, slim and fit looking with short curls. An Asian man who's actually wearing dark glasses, sitting on a battered sofa, laptop on his knees, one bud of a headphone in his right ear. And a red-haired guy in jeans and t-shirt leaning against the kitchen counter, a beer in hand, his eyes almost all white, the irises only pale gray circles.

The woman whistles.

“Okay, grazie, Chiara. Chiara is literally the one-eyed leading the blind as she can still see a little.” Elio explains. He’s blushing and it’s adorable.

“And what I see is actually bellissimo.” She even winks at Oliver.

“Uhm, thank you.” Now it’s his turn to blush.

“Chiara is also from Italy.” Elio's face is turning crimson by now. “And the guys are Nguyen and Bob.”

“Guess who's who?” The Asian boy grins.

“Hi everyone.” Oliver waves before realizing that it's no use.

“He sounds nice.” Bob says. “Want a beer?”

“Uhm, if that's okay with Elio?” As Elio just shrugs he says. “Yes, please.”

Bob opens the fridge, feels around inside for a bit, then hands Oliver a cold Heineken. Oliver bites his tongue not to ask if he's old enough to drink. He knows Elio legally isn't but that didn't stop him the first time.

“So, you're an art Professor?” Chiara asks.

“Yes. Failed painter, actually.”

“Really?” Elio sounds surprised.

“Yes. I'm good, but not good enough to make it. So I thought I help others to improve.”

“That's sweet.” Chiara says. “And sensible.”

“What do you guys do?” Oliver takes a sip of his beer. Elio shifts his weight from one foot to the other as if he's getting a little impatient that Oliver has decided to talk to his flatmates. He looks especially delicate today, wearing black jogging pants tucked into black socks, open black trainers and a black hoodie so large he's almost drowning in it. His hair is still wet as if he just showered. A droplet runs down the side of his pale neck and Oliver licks his lips as he watches it disappear beneath his collar.

“I'm studying chemistry.” Chiara's voice makes him jump a little. When he turns back to her she's fixing him with a strange look. How much can she see? How much did she just see? He stuffs his left hand into the pocket of his jacket, takes another sip.

“Engineering.” Bob says.

“Maths. I'm actually on a stipend for Agent Orange victims.” Nguyen touches his glasses.

“Oh, shit, I'm sorry.” Now Oliver is getting a little uneasy himself. His grandfather had been a Sergeant Major in the US Marine Corps and had been fighting in Vietnam. He’d never talked much about it but after his death his father had told Oliver what little he knew. That grandpa hadn't seen much action as he’d been stationed in Saigon until the Army had been evacuated in a hurry. The graceless retreat had bothered him for the rest of his life.

“No, never mind. If I didn't have this gene defect supposedly caused by my grandmother being poisoned while planting rice I'd still sit in a small shack in Hoi An, sharing with my three siblings, selling postcards to the tourists or begging in the streets. But here I am now in New York City.” Nguyen’s grin widens.

Oliver is not sure if he's joking so he just drinks his beer and makes a non-committal noise.

Thank god Elio intervenes. “So, would you like to see my room? Not that there actually is much to see but-”

“Yes, please, show me your room.” Oliver is aware that he sounds relieved as he puts the empty bottle on the table. “It was nice meeting you all.” He turns and follows Elio down an unlit corridor, knowing that the feeling of three pair of eyes boring into the back of his head is only due to his paranoia. Yet there’s the distinct tingle down his spine as if he’s been weighed, and he hopes the tribunal doesn’t find him wanting.

In his apartment, Elio is moving without the cane which he left by the front door. His fingers trail along a railing on one side of the walls and in the gloom he looks absolutely graceful with his long legs, slim waist and straight back.

Oliver is so lost in his admiration of Elio's backside that he almost walks into him when he stops in front of a door.

“Here we are.” Elio opens it and steps into a surprisingly spacious yet dark room.

“Wow! My room in college was not even half this size and I had to share it with a guy from Omaha.”

“They’re designed for wheelchair users.” Elio puts his bag down and flops onto the bed, apparently the only seating in the room.

Oliver feels along the wall for a light switch but when he clicks it nothing happens.

“Oh, sorry...”, Elio mumbles. “There’s no light bulb... don't really need it. Keeps the utility bills low. Good for the environment a swell.” It looks like he’s smiling but Oliver can’t be sure.

“There are not even candles to make it more romantic?” He jokes.

“I don't usually bring people here so...” Elio trails off, then bows down to unzip his bag and going through his things, throwing the dirty clothes into a far corner one garment after the other. “I could swear there was a crop-top in here as well?”

“I just switch on the torch on my phone then, okay?” Oliver deflects.

“Sure. Good idea.”

The low light shows him bare walls. There are no paintings, posters or photographs. No books. But a boom box on the nightstand. The desk is empty. There's not even clutter. A half-open wardrobe door reveals dark clothing on hangers.

Oliver stops in front of the huge window. There are no curtains and the view is mainly the building opposite. The only remotely personal item is a ballet bar standing in the middle of the room, reminding Oliver of a clothing rack.

“I know there's not much to see but I wanted to deliver you from Nguyen taking the piss. He likes to make fun of your American sensibilities.” Elio chuckles. “He's actually from a bigwig family from Hanoi. Some important politicians. Grew up in an estate for party members. Went to an international school.” 

“Fuck, I totally believed him...” Oliver shakes his head.

“As I said, he likes to embarrass the class enemy. And play into your prejudices.”

Oliver leans his back against the window.

“You train in here as well?” He walks over to the bar, touches it. The wood is cool beneath his palms.

“I try to train as much as possible. Too much sometimes. Do you want some music? Come, sit down.” Elio pats the mattress next to him. It's covered in a surprisingly gaudy quilt, the only splash of color in this almost sterile room.

“Your bedspread is nice.” Oliver says while Elio fiddles with his phone.

“Mafalda made it for me when I left Italy. It's made of my old t-shirts. When I touch them I remember... I can feel the different fabrics, the prints... Okay, what do you like?”

“I don't know. My taste in music probably seems totally outdated to you. Boring.” Oliver sits down, keeping a respectable distance.

“Like what?” There's a tease in Elio's tone.

“Like... Jazz? John Coltrane-”

“Okay. Enough. I choose. Siri, play _Flower Boy_.”

Oliver expects some Eurotrash pop music or maybe something classical – Elio's a ballet dancer after all – and is surprised when Hip Hop blasts from the pill.

“Oh...?”

“Sorry, want me to turn it down a bit?” Elio fumbles with his phone again.

“No, it's fine...” Oliver reaches for Elio's hands to stop him. They suddenly are so close their knees brush.

Elio stills when Oliver's hands cup his. They feel a little cold.

“Elio...” Oliver breathes. He has no idea what he's doing but he doesn't want to let go of Elio's hands. And Elio doesn’t pull away either.

“Did you take my t-shirt?” He asks suddenly, his voice low. “Why?”

This should be embarrassing, Elio calling him out – but there’s just a wave of relief washing over Oliver. He’s surprisingly at ease with Elio discovering his theft. “Because... because it smelled of you.” He's left his phone on the desk, so they are sitting in forgiving twilight. Maybe that's why he dares to lean in.

Elio doesn't move. Oliver can now smell the soap he's used, his shampoo, something spicy and fruity.

“Are you going to kiss me?” Elio whispers, their mouths so close that his breath ghosts over Oliver’s cheek.

“If you don't mind?”

“Of course I don't mind, Oliver.” Elio smiles and Oliver closes the distance between them, his eyes falling shut at the first contact with Elio’s soft lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry for the cliffhanger but I wanted to write their first kiss from Elio's unique perspective. You'll get it in the next chapter. But also, be warned, this is slooooow burn and that means there's angst ahead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry... misunderstandings and drama ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to drop this before I edit it to death.

Elio would like to say he’d seen it coming but that would be only metaphorically true.

Okay, it’s been obvious that something had been building between them over the past few weeks. And maybe, just maybe, Elio left his gym bag on purpose to have a reason to meet Oliver outside of drawing class again…

It had actually been Marzia’s idea – well, not the specific plan but to turn it up a little, make a move.

“If you just meet him at his work place nothing will happen. He’s a professor there, he can’t make a pass on his model in their cafeteria.”

Discovering tonight that Oliver had obviously taken one of his dance shirts has been the last straw.

And now Oliver is holding his hands, kissing him. Softly at first, tentatively, as if seeking permission until Elio tilts his head a little and opens his mouth, his tongue swiping over Oliver’s lower lip. He tastes of the beer he just had, faintly of tobacco, coffee, and peppermint. Elio can feel a hint of stubble scrape his chin.

When their tongues brush Oliver makes a sound between a sigh and a moan. 

Elio decides it’s time for a bold move. He sucks on Oliver’s plush lower lip before biting down.

Now it’s definitely a moan.

Oliver’s hands grip his forearms as if he’s drowning but then slide up over Elio’s shoulders, his neck, cupping his face, trying to pull him even closer, desperate, hungry, not slow and careful any longer, but greedy. The kiss gets wet, messy, and at some point Elio must have dropped his phone because now his hands are touching Oliver as well, first the slightly rough fabric of his lapels until he slides his jacket off his shoulders to reveal the much smoother cotton of his shirt.

He’s holding onto what he can grab, feeling hard muscle beneath the clothes. Oliver seems broad, toned, strong without being bulky. Does he run or lift weights? Elio has never asked…

Oliver is stroking his curls, pulls them just a little while his slick tongue explores; Elio’s hands flutter upwards until they meet Oliver’s face. He’s not really good in seeing with his fingertips but the beard growing on a square yaw, the prominent cheekbones, small ears, wide brow and thick strands of hair morph together into an impression that makes Elio want to lie back and surrender.

It’s been a while since he felt this way.

But instead, he has questions he needs answers to. So he breaks the kiss and pants: “What color…?” Swallows, wipes his chin with the back of one hand, tries to get his breathing back under control.

“What?” Oliver sounds dazed. Elio grins.

“Your hair? What color is it?”

“Oh… blond. Dark blond. Brighter in the summer.”

He feels the bed dip as Oliver moves. Is he adjusting himself?

“And your eyes?”

“Blue.”

“Come on, you're a painter, you can do better. Give me something to work with. Baby-blue, azure, cornflower-blue…?

Oliver giggles. It's a lovely sound. Elio wants to hear it more often. “Cornflower-blue. Is that okay with you?”

“Very.” Elio flops down onto his back, extending a hand that Oliver takes so he can pull him down as well. He’s half on top of him and he’s heavy, warm, solid. It feels so good… like being anchored instead of drifting through the infinite murky void Elio’s usually living in. Elio clutches at Oliver’s hand like it’s a lifeline, his only tether to reality.

This time, Oliver assaults Elio’s neck, sucking, nibbling, sniffing him until he takes his earlobe in his mouth and bites down. Elio gasps. His free hand flies to Oliver’s back, fingers slipping underneath his collar because he needs to touch. His neck is a little damp, his skin so soft and smooth. Elio squirms, aware that his cock is swelling in his sweatpants, a practical yet not very subtle choice of clothing in these circumstances.

Oliver must notice it too and seems to take it as both a signal and permission because his free hand slides underneath Elio’s hoodie, gently stroking his belly. His hand is so large that it might span Elio’s whole waist.

It tickles a little as nimble fingers move up, up, until they find Elio’s right nipple and pinch it, making him arch off the bed.

“Hey, careful…” Oliver chokes because apparently Elio nearly kneed him in the balls.

They both have to laugh. Elio leaves his leg where it ended up.

Oliver presses against it as his hand moves south again, down, down… Elio is actually a bit shocked by what he senses hidden beneath Oliver’s clothes. Because what’s rubbing against his thigh feels huge. 

Undeniably, really, truly huge.

It’s a little frightening. Suddenly, the whole situation gets somewhat overwhelming. He squeezes Oliver’s hand, exhales slowly, tries just to be, not to think too much.

_‘Relax.’_

His skin feels on fire, he wants this, fuck yes, he needs it, there, right there… touch me, Oliver.

Does he have condoms?

Will they need them?

Is that where this is going?

This hasn’t even been a proper date. Still, he’s already on his back while his boss rubs a monstrous erection against his leg, kissing him so deep his tongue might reach his tonsils.

Oliver’s knuckles scrape his belly beneath his navel before pushing below his waistband. Instinctively, Elio bucks up, seeking friction, and Oliver’s hand is almost where he needs it-

But what is that?

Elio feels something cold, metallic scrape against his heated flesh. 

Is his hazy mind playing tricks on him, his nerves firing off misleading signals?

Oliver is kissing his jaw by now, whispering in his ear, his breath hot and wet against Elio’s cheek: “Can I touch you?”

Elio feels goosebumps rise on his arms as all his alarm bells go off. He inhales, leans up a little.

Oliver’s fingers have stilled, resting against Elio’s lower stomach, lying in wait for Elio to decide how they’ll proceed.

There’s the cool sensation again, sharper now that Elio concentrates on it.

“Elio? Is this too fast? Are you okay?” Oliver asks, voice wrecked, husky, nuzzling into the space between Elio’s hoodie and his throat.

And it should really be okay, he’s not a virgin anymore, and it was actually more than okay just a few moments ago but now… now, Elio goes utterly still as he tries to calm down enough to process his sensory perception and to identify what’s causing that weird feeling against his heaving abdomen.

Is that… a ring on Oliver’s hand? On the… third finger?

As Elio is still holding his right hand Oliver must be touching him with his left.

Oliver wears a ring on the ringfinger of his left hand.

You stupid, fucking idiot!

“Stop!” Elio pulls his hand back and tries to push Oliver away but he’s tall and heavy, bracketing him, so in the end it becomes more of an awkward writhing and wiggling until Oliver catches on and finally moves a little to the side, removing his hand from under Elio’s clothes. 

He puts it onto his hoodie instead – releasing Elio from the feel of his ring that threatened to burn trough his flesh like acid. Oliver’s other hand gently ruffles his curls.

“Elio, I’m sorry… I didn’t want to…” The sound of his rough voice makes Elio a little sick.

“Fuck.You!” Elio yells, trying to get his breathing back under control. Then he remembers; his flatmates are only a few feet away, presumably listening in to what’s happening behind his closed door. Not even the music will drown out his angry shout. So he just seethes through gritted teeth: “Fuck.Off. Let go of me.”

No need to make his humiliation more hurtful than it already is by letting his friends in on his abasement: Making out with an obviously married man who didn’t even bother to take off his wedding band before attempting to seduce him.

And why would he?

Elio can’t see him. So why even bother to hide? Isn’t that convenient? He’s the perfect victim for a cheater and a liar.

And because Elio is disabled he might not even dare to ask questions or throw a fit should he find out the truth. Because shouldn’t he be grateful that someone like Oliver – an apparently good-looking Professor, a normal, healthy man – wants someone as damaged as him? Even if it’s only for fucking…

But here Oliver has been truly mistaken. Because Elio won't make the same error twice.

“Get away from me.” He hisses again and finally cool air hits him as Oliver moves away, getting up by the sound of it.

“Elio, what-?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Or did you think I would be so… so needy, so horny that I wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t call you out on it?” He's livid. He wants to inflict as much damage as words allow.

“Elio, I’m sorry, what have I done? Please, what are you talking about? Have I hurt you? I didn’t want to hurt you.” Oliver’s soft, concerned tone just makes Elio more angry. What is that asshole playing at? Does Oliver think he's an imbecile, that something is wrong with his brain apart from being unable to process visuals?

“Is that what you’ve planned to tell your wife when she finds out, too? ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, darling’.” Elio's voice sounds too shrill but he can’t help it. He pulls his hoodie down to cover himself while sitting up.

“My… wife?” Oliver’s sounds hollow, defeated.

“You’re still wearing your wedding ring, you cheating piece of shit. So, why don’t you fuck off back to her and get some pussy?” He can hear Oliver inhale sharply. That hit home. Good! Wrath spreads through Elio’s veins like red-hot lava. He knows his words are vulgar, cheap and gross but it’s such liberation to spit them out

“Elio, please, let me explain-“ Hearing Oliver beg makes him even bolder.

“No! I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses. You saw me pose for you, I told you I needed money, you thought I was desperate in more than one way and you decided to take advantage of it. That you wanted some cock for a change. There’s nothing to explain. I’ve been there before, Professor Weizmann. God, men are such turds. Spare me the lies and just go. Don’t make me more angry or I’ll tell your Dean what happened here. I’m sure Cooper Union doesn’t tolerate this kind of behavior.” It’s an empty threat. Elio would never… and he really needs the money. He isn’t too keen on the hassle that would follow accusing Oliver of improper conduct.

But Oliver doesn’t know that. Elio enjoys tormenting him, keeping him on tenterhooks.

“Imagine the scandal! And what would you tell your wife it all of this came out? Or does she know? Is she aware she married a-”

“Elio!” The sharp bark makes Elio jump a little, the insult already on the tip of his tongue dying as his mouth snaps shut. There follows a deep sigh, then the rustling of fabric. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Oliver says much softer, yet his tone is dead.

_‘Ho visto un fantasma.’_

Steps lead away from the bed. Elio suddenly feels very small and alone.

“I’m sorry, Elio. It’s not like you think it is. Not at all. But you’re upset. Please, let me talk to you when you’ve calmed down, okay?” The words seem to come from much further away than the other side of the room, Oliver’s voice sounding horribly flat.

Usually, they deny it more firmly; Elio knows from experience.

He laughs, shrill and ugly, only proving Oliver’s point. But he still has a shred of pride left. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Professor Weizmann.”

Only when the door has been quietly shut and footsteps are leaving Elio yells after him: “And I want my dance-top back!” Then he sinks back onto the bedspread, pulls it over and around himself, burying his face in one of his pillows.

Not again. Does he always have to end up with married men!?

He shivers as he can’t hold back his tears.

He doesn’t hear Chiara come into his room over the music still playing and his own choking sobs until the mattress dips and a small hand starts to stroke his back.

“Hey, Elio, you alright?”

He thinks about denying it but what’s the point?

“No. Shit, no.” He mumbles.

“He seemed so nice. What happened?”

“Oh, he was nice. Good kisser, too. Too bad he’s married.” He sits up. “Where’s my fucking phone?” He starts to feel around on the bed.

“Merda! Are you sure?”

“He’s wearing his fucking wedding ring so that makes it fairly obvious - if you can see.”

Chiara moves and then presses the hard, cool case of his phone into his right hand.

“Ah, yes, I think I saw something gleam on his finger but I wasn’t sure… he looked gorgeous, by the way. So tall. Like a Greek god-“

“Do you have to rub it in?” Elio wipes his nose on his sleeve, then tells Siri to turn the music off. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to listen to this album again, which is a shame, really. All the more reason to hate Oliver. The following silence is filled with his sniffles until Chiara pulls him in.

“Oh, sorry, piccino, just… I don’t know, Elio. Maybe he’s worth to-“

“No way, Chiara. I’ve been the bit on the side once. Never again.”

“Yeah, shit, I forgot about Marcus. That was bad. But he was an asshole, I told you from day one. Oliver looked different.”

“Well, how should I know?”

Why is Marcus still haunting him? Elio had met him at a shop selling dance gear. He was a choreographer with the City Ballet, mid-thirties, and had helped him pick new shoes - then invited him for a coffee afterwards. Coffee became dinner, drinks… they'd ended up in bed on the very first evening in a Manhattan hotel. Elio had just moved to New York and had been lonely.

It had felt debauched, indecent. Exciting.

Marcus turned out to be a good shag, so they met at least once or twice a week during last autumn, always at their hotel. That should have been a strong hint but Elio didn’t get it. In fact, he’d even thought it might grow into something serious until he asked for Marcus’ plans for Thanksgiving. Reluctantly, Marcus admitted that he was married and had a small daughter, so he would spend the holidays with his family. Elio pretended not to be offended, that he didn’t care, that they were just fuckbuddies – but it had hurt. Still did, sometimes.

Whatever they'd had was never the same afterwards. It dragged on into December when Elio eventually told Marcus after an epic row at the stage door at the Lincoln Center (after a Nutcracker matinee) that he didn’t want to see him again – but only after Marcus had canceled three successive dates due to ‘work’.

He didn’t even try to call Elio once afterwards, to get him back, or to apologize.

That silence had resulted in the death of Elio’s last phone, smashed against a wall after a night of crying with Chiara and the guys. Elio had ended up with his head over the toilet (well, at least at some point) throwing up from smoking too much pot mixed it with Amaretto Chiara’s dad had sent over from Italy for Christmas.

The sweet smell of almonds still makes him retch.

Yet he got drunk on New Year’s Eve again and almost tried something on with Marzia. He’s still grateful that she laughed it off and put him to bed with a bottle of water, Aspirin and a bucket instead of slapping him hard before leaving him alone at the shitty party they’d gone to. When he’d apologized profusely with a bouquet of flowers after the holidays she’d laughed so hard she nearly wet herself (her words) before hugging him tightly.

“Well, at least this time you caught him right at the beginning. Not much harm done yet.” Chiara says, bringing him back.

“Yeah…” He knows Chiara only wants to help, to cheer him up. But it doesn’t work. Because he really likes Oliver. He trusted him. Thought he’d gotten to know him a little.

Well, apparently not.

“You’ll get over him.” Chiara squeezes his shoulder.

“Sure.” But it’s easier said than done.

To take his mind off the fiasco he trains all weekend. Fellow students help him work on his movements and Marzia joins him for a few hours on Sunday.

“And? How are things going with Mister Right?”

“He turned out to be Mister Wrong.” Elio's leotard clings to his skin as sweat runs down his chest and back.

“Oh! How's that?” Marzia sounds doubtful.

“Married.” Elio spits out, throwing his left leg high up in the air.

“Shit. Please don't try to kiss me again.” Marzia presses a hand to his lower back to steady him.

Elio can't help it, he grins. “I'm really not such a bad kisser. I was just wasted.” He bends back as far as possible and then a bit more, his left arm raised above his head.

“I'm sorry.” Marzia sounds like she means it. “How did you find out? Did you apply your Italian charms and he turned you down by talking about his lovely wife and hordes of kids?”

Elio straightens back up, turns to the right, his feet sliding over the hardwood floor. “Not quite. We were making out and I sensed he still wore his ring.”

“What?” Marzia grabs his biceps, stopping him mid-move to shake him. “What an asshole! I'm so, so sorry. He never mentioned a wife before?”

“Nope. Kept me totally in the dark. Pun intended.” Elio shrugs but has to admit that Marzia’s outrage soothes his bruised soul.

“What a piece of shit.” She's silent for a moment. “So he's married... and still made out with you…?” Elio knows where this is leading.

“It's called bisexuality, Marzia.” It’s not the first time he has to explain the concept to someone. It makes him tired.

But Marzia surprises him. “That’s not what I meant, dumbass... but he could be married to a dude...”

Elio had never even thought about that. “Marzia, I really don't care about his marital bliss. Maybe he's Mormon and has three wives? I don't care. It makes anything going on between us impossible.” He rises on tiptoes, lifting his arms.

“Of course... sure... it's just... he sounded so nice. The things you told me. That he'd studied in Italy. Your coffee dates. The museum. Wait, what about your job?”

Elio sighs, kicks out his right leg to gain momentum, spins, spins, spins. Lands in a deep squat. “He didn’t sack me. And I can't quit. I mean, I have my pride but I also have expenses. I had to buy three new pairs of dance shoes the last week alone.” They are $ 40 each. He simply can't afford to lose the extra cash he makes from modeling. He has a stipend for Barnard, and the interest rates from his trust fond almost pay for his rudimentary cost of living like food and rent, but every extra is some sort of concern. Like a higher than usual phone bill, or eating out too often, dance wear... Thanks to the will of his old-fashioned grandmother he has to wait until his 21st birthday to be allowed full access to his money. And his inheritance.

It’s a subject he doesn’t like to think too much about.

Anyway, it has been Oliver who did something wrong. So why should Elio bear the consequences and quit? No, he wouldn't!

“I still plan to go on Tuesday. Just... maybe you could come and meet me, afterwards? So that he doesn't have a chance to make another pass on me?”

“You think he would?”

“Well, he tried to deny it. The usual bullshit, like 'it's not what you think it is. I can explain' bla bla bla... that sort of thing. He might try again. I mean, he probably thinks I'm a bit retarded because I can't see so...”

“What you told me about him before doesn't sound like the person you're describing now.” Marzia states. “You know what? I come on Tuesday, if only to see him for myself.”

“Great. Thank you.” Elio reaches for her and she takes his hand and squeezes it. 

For the rest of the afternoon Marzia relentlessly pushes him until she's satisfied with his barrel turns.

His whole body hurts in the evening and he's grateful for Chiara massaging his aching feet while they all cuddle on the sofa, listening to some stupid sit com on the TV in their living room. He falls asleep after the third episode, only to wake up in the middle of the night, realizing with a smile that someone covered him with a rug. He stays on the couch until the next morning, too tired to move, and pays for it with a cranky neck on Monday.

When he checks his phone he finds a message from Oliver on his mailbox.

_‘Elio, I-‘_

He deletes it after the first two seconds without listening further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, well, it's slow burn, sorry. But I promise they will talk soon!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's pretty miserable. Will Elio give him a chance to explain?

Oliver feels dazed as he walks home the six miles from Barnard College hall of residence all the way to Peter Cooper Village. He doesn't register his surroundings until he stands in front of his block of flats, key in hand – with no real memory how he got here. He wouldn't know if not for his hurting feet and legs. Did he take the shortcut through Central Park? He has no recollection.

After closing the door to his apartment he leans against it, taking deep breaths. In and out. In and out.

He's sadly familiar with this state. He has spent many days last year in this fog, numb to everything. Not thinking, not feeling, just existing. Surviving. Breathe. Sleep. Eat. Drink. Shit. 

Not dead but definitely not alive either.

He'd hoped those days were past him. Apparently not.

Elio made him feel alive again, showed him possibilities he hadn't dared to think about for almost a year; forgotten, buried joys like real conversations, laughing, companionship – and yes, flirting.

And now the loss fucking hurts, triggering painful memories.

Elio...

He can still hear his voice in his head – his breathless moans as well as his icy rejection.

And he can't blame him.

Because it's true, he _is_ still wearing his wedding ring, binding him to Rachel in an eternal vow, and even as it is _not_ how Elio thinks – Oliver's not really a free man either. His wife is still present in his life, his daily routines. He can't just forget her. He can't escape her ghost. He doesn't want to. That's why he didn't take off his ring. It would feel wrong to remove it – so, is he truly ready for a new relationship?

And can he burden someone so young and already so hurt and scarred like Elio with someone like himself and all his emotional baggage?

Would that be fair?

So, maybe what happened is for the best? Maybe Oliver deserved every word Elio spat in his face?

The impulse to open the whiskey bottle is strong. He has abstained most nights over the past few weeks. He even had started to work on some drawings again. Not the portrait, no, he's not ready for that yet, but his passion for creating art did come back. Because of Elio.

Okay, he needs to calm down. He only allows himself one glass before taking two of the sleeping pills he got prescribed last year. He usually doesn't like them as they only intensify the feeling of living in a bubble stuffed with cotton wool but tonight all he wants to is knock himself out – and find some rest.

As he had feared, he feels worse when he wakes up the next morning. A blinding headache prevents him from going for a run. He spends the day in, doing what his mother would call spring cleaning: washing the windows, vacuuming the carpets. When he finds Elio's crumpled crop-top (still a little stiff from his semen) stuffed half under the bed he needs to sit down on the floor, holding it for a long time in his hands before carefully folding the garment into a neat square and placing it on his pillow.

Mindless manual labor has always allowed him to let his thoughts flow, giving him the space and clarity to make decisions. So, in the afternoon, he takes a deep breath and starts sorting through Rachel's clothes in their wardrobe, boxing most of them for charity. It's about time. The smell of her perfume surrounds him but he forces himself to go through her stuff until he's blind with tears and has to stop.

The weekend drags on. Saturday evening is hell. When he can't stand staying inside his apartment alone any longer he goes to a cinema, watching some lowbrow superhero movie to switch off for a few hours. Afterwards, it occurs to him that he didn't have anything to eat all day, so he stops at a cart for a hot dog. It tastes of nothing and Oliver throws it away after a few bites.

On Sunday he goes jogging until his legs hurt too much and his lungs are burning. The weather is bright and it feels like as if the sun is mocking him.

After showering he does some shopping, buying food he's sure will end up in the bin but it's what you do to function: you buy groceries, you put them away, you cook... and then you stare at your plate until the pasta with tomato sauce doesn't look like an open wound any longer so you can stuff it in your mouth, pretending to taste and enjoy it.

The whiskey seems to be staring right back at him until he pours it down the sink. He knows by now that drinking doesn't help, that it only makes things even sadder in the end.

He spends the evening looking at the drawings he's made of Elio, sitting, lying, standing, his front, his back... some just bodyparts, his long fingers, his chiseled legs... his eyes. He has such beautiful green eyes.

When he can't stand it any longer he carefully puts them away in a folder that sits on his nightstand.

“Fuck, Rachel...” He takes her photograph in hand. He snapped it around this time last year. The weather had been great as well, too warm for April, so they'd decided to take one of the Hudson ferries down to South Street Seaport. 

Rachel is leaning against the railing, the wind blowing her chestnut hair into her face. She's smiling against the sun, her freckled nose scrunched up…

It had been a good day. One of the last good days...

“What am I doing?” He asks her. But, of course, there's no answer. 

One of the worst things is that he's starting to forget the sound of her voice. He deleted all of her voice messages in a drunken rage last autumn because he couldn't bring himself to listen to them. Now he wishes he hadn't.

His eyes wander over to his phone. He didn't check it over the weekend. Because silently he hopes Elio might have called or sent a message - and isn’t ready to face the disappointment if he didn't. But now he can't suppress the urge any longer.

There's nothing.

Why did he pour his whiskey away?

He just wants to hear his voice. No, that's not true. They need to talk. He has to tell Elio everything – not because he still wants to have him (he does, though), but because he doesn't want Elio to unnecessarily suffer, to think that Oliver did it on purpose, hit on him when married, that he doesn't respect Elio or exploited his condition.

He owes Elio an explanation. Out of respect.

So he pulls up his number and touches the screen, listening to the monotone ring, holding his breath as he awaits Elio to answer.

But again – nothing.

No wonder. As he glances at the clock he realizes that it’s nearly two in the morning. Where did the time go? But just as he’s about to disconnect Elio's voice-box picks up.

_'Ciao, it's Elio Perlman. Please leave a message. Per favore lascia un messaggio. Thanks, bye.'_

Oliver swallows. “Elio, I... Sorry, hi, it's me... it's... Oliver. Yeah... uhm... so... Jesus... Sorry. I need to talk to you? Please? It's not... don't make me tell you over the phone, please. I hope we're still on for Tuesday? Please, give me a chance. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. Or insult you. I swear. You're... important to me. You are. Please, I-'

There’s a loud beep, indicating that his time is up. 

Oliver stares at the black screen of his phone for a long time until he finally gets up, goes over into the bathroom, soaps up his left hand and carefully pulls off his wedding ring. It takes some time but it comes off in the end, leaving a telling white impression. The golden band lies heavy in his palm, gleaming in the bright light of the bathroom lamp.

He can read the engraving: 'I am you and you are me'.

He puts the ring into a small box he keeps in the drawer of his nightstand, next to Rachel’s smaller one and his Star of David.

He doesn't hear back from Elio.

On Monday, he washes Elio's t-shirt. He has no right to keep it.

And yet Oliver is happily surprised when Elio turns up Tuesday evening, albeit two minutes past six. He walks past Oliver into the little storage room to undress and takes his position on the stage without even saying hello.

Oliver clears his throat. “Okay, today we'll just work on some details in your drawings from last week. Elio, if you could just sit down, legs together, back straight, arms to the side? Please?”

He has to look away when Elio drops the robe.

It's become a ritual that he brings him a coffee during the break. He's not sure it's appropriate today but not doing it feels wrong as well. So he tensely approaches Elio and sets the mug down on the floor next to his feet.

“I have your t-shirt... top... whatever.” He says for lack of anything better. “I put it next to your bag. On the sofa.” He’s blabbering.

“Good.” Elio turns his head away and doesn't touch the coffee. “Thank you.” It sounds like _‘fuck off’_ but Oliver has to try again.

“Can we... talk... afterwards?”

Elio is blushing, frowning: “I'm meeting someone. I won’t have time.”

And it's true. Just before class ends a beautiful dark-haired woman quietly opens the door and sneaks in. She waits there, her eyes darting around until they come to rest on Oliver. Her face stays blank but when Oliver takes a step towards her she just raises a hand and points at Elio.

“Professor Weizmann?” A student has a question about perspective and so he answers him while trying to ignore the intruder.

Who is she?

Is she Elio’s girlfriend? But he said he’s not into girls. Did he lie?

While Elio dresses and the students file out Oliver eventually approaches her.

“Hi! I'm Professor Weizmann. Oliver. Are you here for Elio?” He asks. She just nods. “He'll be out in a minute.”

She’s small but looks fit, wearing jeans, an oversized red hoodie and sneakers. A fellow dancer? Did they maybe meet at Barnard? She also seems a little older than Elio. Is he into that?

Oliver can’t help himself. “You’re his friend?”

_‘God, shut up! You sound like a creep.’_

“Yeah.” It seems as if she wants to say more but then she just shrugs. “I'll wait outside.” And with that she turns and leaves.

Left alone, Oliver stares at the door of the storage room as if his eyes could pierce the wood if he only tries hard enough. Eventually, it opens and Elio walks out, cane in hand, bag and backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Elio...?”

“Till next Thursday, Professor Weizmann.”

Oliver wants to stop him, to just grab him by the arm, make him stay, force him to listen. He even reaches for him until the absurdity of the situation hits him and almost makes him laugh.

So he lowers his arm, steps back and says: “Till Thursday, Elio.”

As he tidies up he notices that Elio did drink the coffee after all. He doesn't know why that gives him hope.

He sleeps a little better the next two nights.

On Thursday afternoon he can't resist any longer and calls Elio again. He's not sure if he'll answer but he tries anyway. To his surprise, Elio picks up. Only as he hears his voice ask 'Yeah? Who's that?' does Oliver realize that Elio can't see the caller ID. But he didn't block him either. Another good sign, right?

“Hi, it's Oliver.”

Silence. Then: “Professor Weizmann.” Elio's voice sounds cool, but not icy.

“Yeah... uhm”, Oliver takes a deep breath, “I was wondering if you could stay a moment tonight after class?”

“I don't think that's a very good idea.”

Now or never. Don't give up! “Look, Elio, I know you think I'm an asshole-”

“If there's nothing else... I have training.” Elio ends the call and Oliver is tempted to throw his phone onto the floor of his studio. Instead, he walks over to a giant canvas mounted on one wall, takes up a brush and starts smearing bright red paint all over the virginal white surface until it looks like someone has been slaughtered in here.

He feels a bit better afterwards.

That evening, Elio is on time. Oliver directs him into an intricate pose, lying on the bench, one arm behind his head, one leg bend at the knee... it reminds him of last Friday, Elio on his bed when they'd kissed...

Oliver stares and stares, remembering the soft noises Elio had made, the feel of his silky curls, his hot skin, taut over lean, hard muscle, a hint of hair trailing down his stomach, the smell of his sweat...

He's not prepared for a life in which he will never experience that again.

Luckily, this time no one turns up to snatch Elio away. When the students have left Oliver squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, then opens the door to the storage room without knocking.

Desperate times warrant desperate measures. 

Elio is just getting into his track suit bottoms, balancing on one foot, his head turning up in the direction of where Oliver barges in – as always fixing a point slightly out of focus – too surprised to protest.

Oliver has rehearsed what he wants to say; he's prepared to explain the situation in a sensible way. It's not an easy subject to break to someone, especially someone with Elio's traumatic experiences. At his young age he already had to deal with a loss beyond what anybody should have to deal with as a child. So Oliver will give him time to digest what he'll confess.

Yes, that's how Oliver has planned this confrontation.

Only, all those carefully prepared words suddenly seem to have left him. Because what comes out of his mouth in one rush is this:

“She's dead, okay? My wife. Rachel. She's dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry, I hope everyone's still alright? Some of you called it already from the start that Oliver is a widower... More explanations are to follow in the next chapter when these two will finally talk about things that matter.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally talk. Oliver tells Elio about his dead wife and in return Elio tells Oliver more about himself.
> 
> Oh, and the chapter ends with some sexy times. They need it and we deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself, the details of Elio's car accident are gruesome.

For once, Elio is glad that he can't see. Because he's aware of how utterly ridiculous he must look: one leg inside his trousers, wobbling on one foot, the other in mid-air, naked from the waist up… But it's not just his appearance that lacks grace right now – what fills Elio with even more shame is that he acted like an immature child, forcing Oliver to tell him something of this gravity without any dignity or preamble in a storage room.

Embarrassment freezes Elio mid-motion and he just stands there as the full force of Oliver's words hit him. His track suit bottoms slip from his fingers to pool around his ankle. The whole situation is so cringe-worthy that he resorts to a hated platitude because it’s the only thing to say that comes to mind.

“I'm... I'm so sorry.” He stammers as he suddenly understands why people resort to this cliche so often when confronted with sad news. What else is there to say in the face of such a monumental, devastating loss? “I… I-”

He’s rendered speechless as long-forgotten voices fill his head: 'We're so sorry for you.' - 'That poor boy.' - 'Our heartfelt condolences.' - 'So sorry, dear.' – ‘Sorry for your loss.’ - Sorry... sorry... sorry...

Everyone had been so sorry.

Next thing he’s aware of is that his knees give out. It's the shock, he realizes, surprisingly clear, as he stumbles forward, his dropped trousers further preventing him from keeping his balance, and he fully expects to hit the floor, hard, face-first, but he thankfully lands in Oliver's arms.

“Hey, easy...” He half drags, half guides Elio the few steps until he's sat on the sofa, cradled against Oliver's warm chest.

“Shit, sorry...” Elio mumbles, trying to take deep breaths.

They stay like this for some minutes, breathing in unison, Oliver holding him close, his nose buried in Elio's hair.

“Okay?” Oliver asks eventually. Elio just nods, feeling too weak to speak yet.

“Is it okay if I tell you about her?” Oliver sounds uncertain, as if carefully feeling his way forward through the emotional minefield of Elio's complicated sensibilities.

“Of course.” Elio’s hands grab the soft fabric of Oliver's jumper to ground himself and to keep Oliver close.

“We met in London, on my way back from Italy. I told you about Milan...,” Elio nods again, his cheek rubbing against the cotton of Oliver's sweater. He can hear his heart hammer beneath his ear pressed to his broad chest. “Well, she was... I don't know, I've never met anyone like her before. So full of life. So creative. She was a photographer, a few years older than me. She worked for some big magazines like _‘Time’_ and had just come back from Syria where she'd been sent to as a war correspondent, documenting the crimes committed by the Assad regime... she was so tough, so brave. But also very... generous, kind. And fucking funny.”

Oliver falls silent. Elio listens to his slowing heartbeat until he continues.

“I'd just wanted to stay a few days in London before returning to the States but instead I moved in with her. She lived in a scroungy bedsit in Clapham, just one room and a shared bath on the stairs. We didn't leave the bed for a whole week, living on tea, biscuits and the odd order of take-away from the chippy down the road.” Oliver laughs at the memory, sounding much younger. “We got married at a registry office in Brixton just after three weeks. I simply knew she was the one. But my parents were shocked.” Silence. Why does Oliver sound so bitter at the mention of his family? “Until they finally met her. After frosty thirty minutes they really took to her and welcomed her with open arms. Though it took me a while to talk her into moving to New York. Then she got an exhibition here and I got the job at Cooper Union and it was all so perfect. We were so in love...” He trails off.

He sounds so honest that Elio can’t even be jealous. It’s obvious that Oliver is talking about a person that has been hugely important to him – possibly still is – but Elio can only feel compassion for him and neither anger nor hate towards that person. To convey that he understands he slings an arm around Oliver’s middle and waits.

Because he knows the worst is yet to come.

When Oliver speaks again his voice is strained. “Last spring... she started to feel tired. She had stomach pains that developed into constant diarrhea... we thought it might be something she caught overseas, during her time in the Middle East maybe... but it wasn't. When she eventually went to see a doctor it turned out she had high malignant Non-Hodgkin-Lymphoma. We tried radiation, chemotherapy... she suffered like a dog. It was...” Oliver's grip tightens around Elio's shoulder. “To see her like that, fading away, hurting... well, at least it didn't take long. She died August 19th last year... just three days after her 32nd birthday. She was barely conscious at the time... her body just couldn't take it anymore. It was a relief... for her.”

“And for you?”

Something wet runs down Elio's cheek. He's unsure if it's his tears or Oliver's.

“I couldn't... I just couldn't go on anymore.” His voice breaks and he sobs into Elio’s curls. Elio just holds him as best he can until the crying fit abides. 

“Sorry…”

“Don’t. It’s okay. I know. Just tell me.”

Oliver sniffles, clears his throat, sighs. “I stopped working. Stopped painting. Stopped with everything. I didn't eat, or showered or left our apartment. Just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. After a few weeks I went back to London, where we met... and drank and drank. I ended up in hospital because I … fell... into the fucking Thames...” Oliver laughs but it just sounds sad.

“You… fell?”

Oliver waits a moment, pressing his lips to Elio’s hair. “No.” It’s very quiet in the small room. “But when I was going under in the dark, icy water I suddenly... I realized... I didn't want to die. Not that I particularly wanted to live but death sucked as well. Or at least dying. So I somehow fought my way back to shore. Someone had seen and already called an ambulance... You know, the episode was actually quite wholesome. At least I knew that wasn't an option. I had to try to come to terms with being alone. So I returned here, got back to work... and met you.”

Now it's Elio's turn to stay silent, just squeezing Oliver as tight as he can.

“I'm such an idiot.” He mumbles eventually. “I should have listened to you, should have given you a chance-”

“I'm so sorry I have to burden you with all of this-”

“Don't you dare apologize to me or feel guilty for your loss! I know how it is. I know what it means to lose someone, to mourn the most important people in your life. Bereft, they call it, and it's true.”

“But that's part of the problem, Elio! You already lost your dad and now I-”

“Not just my dad.” Time to come clean, it seems. Quid pro quo. Oliver deserves it.

“Sorry...”

“You wanna hear my whole sad story? I think I owe you the truth after... well... Okay.” He swallows, his mouth going dry. “My parents. They were so in love it hurt to watch sometimes. Doesn't mean they were always happy together. Especially my mama had a temper... anyway... it was my thirteens birthday, they took me out to an expensive restaurant to celebrate but somehow started to argue. I don't know why. The presents? The food? Whatever... By the end of the evening mama was in one of her moods. They both had had a lot of wine yet papa decided he could still drive. When mama complained he only became more stubborn, drove faster...” Elio needs a moment to collect himself as the memories of that night come back. “The last thing I remember seeing is mama’s profile, looking at my father, eyes wide. I think she said something like 'slow down'. She reaches for him or for the wheel... and then there's a noise like an explosion and everything goes dark.” He wipes his face. Definitely his tears now. “I wore a seatbelt and sat in the back, that's why I survived the crash. They both died. They were... decapitated, going right through the windscreen... Papa’s body was found smashed against the tree we collided with. Anchise told me later. Mama's head was found ten meters away from her body in the driveway.” He chokes. Fuck! Fuck! It's been so long ago. He should be able to tell his tale more composed.

“Oh god.” Oliver pulls him into his lap, strokes his naked back. Elio shivers, but has to admit the physical contact helps a lot right now.

“I had severe head injuries, stayed in a coma for two weeks. When I came around I couldn't see. But miraculously no bones where broken – apart from fractures to my skull. I had suffered heavy cuts to my arms and legs though, from glass shards. One of my shins got sliced open by a piece of metal protruding from the car's body. I think there's still a scar.” He feels Oliver nodding. “But thank god I could still dance. I was even encouraged during rehabilitation. So I ended up living with my aunt, my mother's sister, in Milan. She and my uncle were lovely but also quite devastated. I think they never got over what happened. Seeing me like this every day didn't help.”

“And what did help? What made you go on?” Oliver's voice sounds thick.

“Dance. I have danced since I was four. You?”

“Art. Beauty. Drawing. Drawing you.”

“God, we're fucked.” Elio can’t help it, a laugh bubbles up inside him as he wipes his nose in Oliver’s jumper.

“Yes.” Oliver touches his face, his fingers gently stroking Elio’s cheeks, his brow, his temples. It feels soothing.

Elio doesn't know who starts it but suddenly they are kissing, frantically, desperate, grinding against each other. Elio is still almost naked and it doesn't take long for Oliver to cup his ass, pulling him even closer.

Fuck, yes! Elio wants it so much. To feel alive. To feel love.

But then Oliver stops.

“What?” Elio whines.

“Not like this. Let’s do this properly. A date.”

“No... let’s just-”

“Elio. We have time. Let’s take this slow.”

“Nooo!” Elio is grabbing Oliver again while shaking his head, pushing his hand under his sweater, touching warm skin. He can feel that Oliver’s hard against his own straining cock probably barely covered by his boxer-briefs .Apparently Oliver’s dick seems as huge as everything about him… So why stop now?

“No, no, no.” To Elio’s dismay Oliver lifts him off his lap. “There's no rush. I want to take you out. Talk to you. And then...”

“Yes?” Elio scoots back towards Oliver's body heat.

“Then I take you to my place. Undress you. Lick you all over. Fuck you just the way you like it.”

Elio tries to latch onto Oliver again but is firmly pushed away by a big, strong, firm hand in the middle of his bare chest. Rejection never felt this hot.

“Okay. Saturday. You can take me out to dinner.” He concedes. This battle might be lost but the war is far from over.

“A salad again?”

“Oh, no. I’ll bleed you dry.” Elio tries to sound lascivious and Oliver awards him with one of his giggles. “And afterwards you take me to the pictures. Classic date.”

“The pictures? Like... how? I mean...”

“Ever heard of a thing called audio-description? Despite, who goes to the cinema to watch a movie?”

“Oh...”

Now it's Elio's turn to giggle.

Later that night, Elio turns around on the platform when he hears his train approach and demands: “Kiss me.”

Oliver enthusiastically obliges and Elio grins all the way back to his apartment.

Apparently, Chiara and Bob are still up.

“Hey, you look like the metaphorical cat that got the cream.” Chiara greets him. “What happened to 'I-hate-everything-and-everyone-Elio' who left this morning? What did you do to him?”

“What is it?” Bob asks. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, I'd say our dear Elio is radiant.” Chiara chimes.

“Fuck off.” By now Elio's face outright hurts from smiling as he walks down the corridor to his room.

“Looks like you two made up.” Chiara sing-songs after him. “I need to know everything!”

Elio turns towards her voice and blows her a kiss before closing his door.

In bed, he asks Siri to open his messenger app. “Call WEIZMANN.”

Oliver picks up after the first ring.

“Hey.” Elio greets him. “Where are you?”

“Uhm... in bed?” Oliver’s voice is a little husky, as if he just ran.

“Then why do you sound like... _oh_. Are you doing what I think you're doing?”

“Would that... would that disturb you?” Oliver sounds so shy it makes Elio feel warm all over.

“Not at all.” Elio shoves his free hand down his trousers, between his legs. “As long as you're thinking about me.”

Oliver chuckles. “Cocky, are we, Perlman?”

“You've no idea.” Elio tugs experimentally and it feels good. Very good.

“Then give me some... ideas.” Oliver's voice is even lower now. He sounds so close and yet Elio is alone in his bed.

“Wait.” He puts the phone down, frees his erection by pushing his pants to mid-thigh, then feels for his nightstand. There should be some lotion he uses for his sore feet. Ah, there it is... he squeezes a dollop onto his palm, picks up the phone with his right hand and goes back to stroking himself with his left. That way it feels as if it’s someone else touching him.

Better.

“What did you do?” Oliver asks.

“Just slicked things up a little...”

“Oh god... can you put me on speaker? I want you to use both hands.”

Elio bites his lips as he does what Oliver wants.

“Will you tell me what to do?”

“Just play with your beautiful cock for a little longer.” He can hear Oliver's breathing become more elaborate. “And touch your balls. Does it feel good?”

“Yes...” Eliot twists his wrist slightly at every upstroke, sighs.

“Are you fully hard?”

“Guess so...”

“God, I... Elio, please, tell me, is this too fast? I don't want to freak you out.” Oliver’s voice is strained, as if he has to really concentrate to utter this question.

“It's fine. I like it. Just don't stop...”

“Okay, okay...” It comes out in a rush. “Spread your legs. God, if I could only see you...”

“Welcome to my world.” Elio is panting by now, his cock getting wetter with every stroke. ”Tell me what you're doing, Oliver.” He rolls his balls languidly, lazily pulling them away from his body while he feels them tighten. He wants his fingers somewhere else but it's Oliver who calls the shots here.

“I'm naked, on my bed. My left hand is playing with my left nipple. It's so sensitive. Hmmm. My right hand is around my cock. I’m so wet, leaking all over my fingers. God, I'm so hard, just thinking about you, it kinda hurts...”

“Have you done this before while thinking of me?” Elio hand speeds up.

“I've been looking at my drawings of you almost every night.”

“You've got drawings of me? How many?” He has to slow down or this will be over very soon.

“A lot. And I might have taken some artistic liberty...”

“So they are-?”

“Explicit. Very explicit.”

“I want you to draw me like this one day. Aroused. Naked. Watch me touching myself-”

“Elio!” It sounds like a warning.

“Please... allow me to... I need it.” It's just a hoarse whisper.

“Do you ever...?”

“Yes. Yes, I do, Oliver. Please, may I? Now?” Elio is sweaty all over, writhing on his mattress, the covers kicked aside. His skin tingles with need as he pushes his pants all the way down his legs and off to spread them wide, pulling them up against his chest, reaching lower. “Please?” He's begging and he doesn't care.

“Just one finger... go slow...” Oliver sounds wrecked by now.

It's too dry despite the remnants of lotion but Elio can't remember where he put it and is not in the mood to search for it. He's simply too horny, his cock throbbing in his fist.

“Tell me... tell me what you're doing. Talk to me, please.” Now it's Oliver's turn to beg.

“I'm just... circling my hole... oh god...!” He tries to push in but it hurts and he hisses in pain.

“Put your finger in your mouth. Make it wet. Suck it. Imagine it's my cock.”

Elio does as he's told, sucking on his index finger, moaning around it until it's slick with spit.

“Are you ready?”

Elio is so ready he feels like his balls might explode if he doesn't find release soon. He expresses his state with some colorful expletives that make Oliver snort a laugh.

“Fuck, Elio, do it. Fuck yourself on your finger for me.”

He's whimpering as he breaches himself slowly, now enjoying the sensation.

“Oh-Oliver…”

“That's it, baby. Nice and slow. Feel it. Fell me.”

Elio slides deep, then pulls almost all the way out, his tight ring of muscle pulsing around his fingertip. When he pushes back in he crooks his finger – and sees stars.

“Fuck!” He shouts.

“Yes, baby...” He can hear the wet noise of flesh sliding against flesh through the speaker. Oliver has a big cock, he has discovered tonight. God, to have him inside instead of his lean, lonely finger…

“Are you... are you doing the same?” He's gasping like a fish out of water.

“Yes... so close... god, Elio... hgnhhh...”

Elio's heart hammers in his ears. His legs start to shake in their uncomfortable position, muscles getting sore. His wrist hurts. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters apart from rubbing that spot inside himself while fucking into his fist. His movements become more and more erratic and he pants and moans, loud and unashamed. Can Bob and Chiara hear him? God, this feels good! And the idea that someone is listening only turns him on more. He definitely has an exhibitionist streak.

It ends too soon. 

“Oliver, I’m… I’m…!” His hand on his cock stutters as his finger pushes in up to the third knuckle and then he's losing himself in the sensation, shooting warm wetness all over his hand and chest and belly.

“Yeah, baby, come… Elio!” He’s pretty sure Oliver’s voice carries all the way through their apartment.

Elio groans when he entangles himself and pulls his finger out. He’ll feel that tomorrow, he thinks, as he stretches his legs, rolls onto his side where his phone must lie, feeling for it with his sticky hand and realizing too late that he's probably smearing his ejaculate all over the small screen.

Well, it can't be helped. He's too blissed out to care.

“You still there?” Oliver sounds as breathless as he feels, but also very, very satisfied.

“Hmmm.” Elio hums, searching for a blanket.

“That was... wow.” The quiet feels content, easy. “Not too much?”

“No.” Elio shakes his head despite that Oliver can't see him.

“You sound as if you need some sleep, baby. Good night, Elio.”

“Night, ‘liver. Can you stay on the line.” He mumbles, already slurring his words as he gets under the sheet but Oliver understands.

“Sure.”

He listens to Oliver breathe on the other end. It's almost as if he's here with him, holding him, taking care of him.

“Looking forward to Saturday.” Elio sighs before he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I promised a happy story?! Thank you for reading this far without much smut. There's more to come, promised, but they'll do it properly :)


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night - part one! They eat and talk...

_[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed) made some art for the last chapter - one of Oliver's drawings of Elio - but I just drop it here, okay?_

Oliver both fears and longs for Saturday evening. He can't remember the last time he'd been so excited and nervous because of a date. Well, he barely can remember the last time he _went_ on a proper date.

It must have been way before Rachel. They never dated properly, they just fell in love and that was that. Very European.

Therefore, he feels rusty. Old. For god's sake, he's a widower. At 26. Dating a boy of 19. Is this really a good idea?

But it somehow feels right. Both his students and colleagues tell him how happy he looks on Friday. He'd almost forgotten that warm, fuzzy feeling of looking forward to something nice – even if it terrifies him a little.

And so he makes a reservation at an exclusive Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, not too far away from an art house cinema. He has no idea what kind of films Elio likes but feels the need to impress him with a black and white Nouvelle Vague movie in French - without subtitles.

Saturday morning, Oliver hoovers and tidies up before walking over to the pharmacy to buy lube and condoms just in case. Their phone sex had been promising so he doesn't want to take any chances and come unprepared.

In the afternoon, he shaves, showers, trims his pubes – and then spends an hour in front of his closet, debating what to wear despite Elio being unable to see it anyway.

But he wants to feel good, sexy, confident. This is A DATE – the first for him in many years – and so he puts some effort in.

In the end, he decides on gray chinos, his favorite light-blue shirt with little white palm trees printed on it, and a dark blue blazer that brings out his eyes (as Rachel had told him when they bought it together). He even puts on cologne and styles his hair with some fragrant product he almost forgot he owned. Because the sun is shining brightly he dons his Ray Bans. A last look in the mirror tells him that he doesn't look too bad – at least by his standards.

A woman from the seventh floor he meets in the lift (with whom he'd talked briefly a few times after Rachel's funeral because she'd insisted to bring him casseroles and cakes but had stopped eventually when he didn't ask her in) eyes him up and down curiously.

“Are you going out? You look... dapper.” She smiles encouragingly.

Oliver can't suppress a grin in return. “Yes. I'm... meeting someone.”

“That's good. I'm sure Rachel would approve. It's about time. You've to go on with your life. So, where did you meet the lucky lady?”

“I... We... met at work.” Oliver doesn't correct the pronoun. He's not ready for that kind of conversation.

It makes him feel like a coward, though. It also kind of irks him that she assumes she knows what his late wife would have wanted for him.

_'Don't let this stranger spoil your evening,'_ he tells himself while she talks about the benefits of workplace romances, nodding in agreement without really listening.

He's glad when they reach the ground floor and he can walk away from her, wishing her a pleasant evening.

But perhaps that encounter should have been a warning? Because what's left of his giddy cheerfulness is shattered when he arrives at the restaurant ten minutes early, only to be told that they somehow messed up his reservation. And now there's no table available.

Neither pleading, bribing nor arguing helps.

Shit! Fuck! He wanted this evening to be perfect, something very special, and now it's rapidly going south.

He nervously waits for Elio outside the restaurant, smoking a cigarette, contemplating to phone him and just call the whole thing off when he sees him, cane in hand, as he walks down the street, parting the stream of pedestrians who step aside to let him pass.

It's like a revelation.

Elio looks simply gorgeous. His hair is shining in the setting sun, a cascade of warm, liquid chocolate framing his beautiful face. He's wearing tight black jeans, Doc Martens, a silk black shirt – and a purple suede jacket. Oliver has trouble swallowing.

“Hey.” He greets him, stepping in his way and leaning in to peck him on the cheek. He smells even better than he looks. “Sorry, but there seems to have been a mistake. They can't find my reservation so I guess I'll buy you a hot dog instead. There's a cart just round the corner.” He tries to play it funny but isn't sure it's working.

“What?” Elio sounds bewildered.

“Sorry, there's no table available, but we can just-”

“No. Don't apologize... Hot dog is fine. A true New York delicacy.” Elio straightens up and grins. “It's fine.”

Oliver relaxes a little, pressing his forehead against Elio's. “Thank you.” He whispers. “I promise to make up for it.”

“Hey.” Elio slides his hands up his arms. “I'm probably even more scared than you. Lets just have fun, okay.”

“Okay.” Oliver kisses him again, this time on the mouth. He feels Elio lean against him and it's really hard not to just grab his ass and press him against the wall of the building behind them and devour him. Elio laughs against his lips, a bright giggle that rights all that is wrong with the world.

“You smell nice.” He says next, his hands cupping his face. “And you shaved.”

“Yeah, I really scrubbed up.”

“For me?”

“Of course. I want this night to be special.”

“Special?” Elio tilts his head. “So, if you could choose anywhere you wanted to go... What's the poshest place you'd decide on?”

Oliver chuckles. “Hm, let me think.” Rachel had loved French cuisine. “Actually, there's a restaurant just a few blocks away. 'Le Canard'. It's French. We... I... always wanted to go there but it's impossible to get a table, especially on a Saturday night. You need to book months in advance.”

“Well, lets try it anyway. Can you guide me?”

Oliver shakes his head. This boy is unbelievable. But he doesn't want to come over as a spoilsport. He's messed up already, so why not let Elio take over? “Uhm, you sure? I mean, are you psychic or what? Do you think you can hypnotize the maître d'?”

“Just trust me, okay.” Elio smiles smugly, bouncing on his toes.

And Oliver does, taking Elio's hand to lead him down Second Avenue while his cane swipes the sidewalk. He's aware that people are looking at them – is it because Elio is so beautiful or because he's blind, he wonders?

“I'm so sorry our date starts like this...” Oliver blurts out after a minute, his anxiety getting the better of him.

“I told you, it's fine. Really. This will be fun. I mean, it could be worse, it could be raining. But the sun is shining. I think you're wearing sunglasses? It felt as if you do.”

“Yes.”

“Give them to me. And just smile and agree with everything I say and do, whatever happens.”

Oliver passes Elio his Ray Ban.

“Do I look truly blind now?” Elio asks.

Oliver swallows, feeling a bit uncomfortable. “Like Ray Charles.”

But Elio doesn't seem to mind. “Good.” He nods.

As they reach the restaurant, Oliver stops. “We're here. But I doubt-”

“Just let me. And watch.” Elio lowers his head, takes a deep breath, and when he looks up again his expression is meek and a little forlorn. “Just lead me to the entrance, please.”

Oliver pulls the door of _'Le Canard'_ open for him and is immediately met with the delicious smells of garlic, lemon and fresh herbs. It's mouth-watering. He takes a quick look around – the place is packed – before gently guiding Elio up to the Cerberus in charge of the reservations, standing behind a high wooden lectern.

Oliver braces himself for another defeat as he meets the cool, unfazed stare of the middle-aged, balding man stroking a thin mustache, his name-tag identifying him as Francois. He comes over quite blase but when he sets eyes on Elio his stern composure crumbles a little. Oliver knows this look of pity and usually loathes it – he's seen it too often after Rachel died.

“Oui?” Francois asks as Elio steps in front of him, looking him up and down in a mixture of unease, sympathy and arrogance.

Elio nervously plays with the handle of his white cane. “Je m'appelle Elio Perlman. J'ai une réservation pour deux à six heures.” Elio answers in what sounds like impeccable French to Oliver.

This seems to surprise the maître d'. “Perlman? Let me have a look, monsieur.” He has a heavy French accent that sounds a little put on.

Oliver watches him as he goes through his big, leatherbound folio of a booking ledger, frown deepening. “I'm afraid... Je suis désolé, mais je ne trouve aucune réservation.” He shrugs, turning his palms up in apology.

Now it's Elio's turn to frown, looking over to Oliver, blushing. “Oh, that's... I'm so sorry.“ He even bites his lip – maybe to suppress a smile.

“Are you sure about the date?” The maître d' asks.

“Yes, of course. It's my boyfriend's birthday.” At this cue, Oliver decides to smile. “I made the reservation months ago. But I guess I somehow made a mistake. It happens...” Elio trails off, his face falling until he reminds Oliver of a kicked puppy.

“We usually send a confirmation email.” Francois explains, sounding sympathetic.

“Well, I wouldn't know, would I?” Elio mumbles, touching Oliver's dark glasses, making it look absentmindedly. Oh, he's good, the little devil. “But it's okay, we'll find somewhere else-”

“Perlman, you said?” The maître d's face softens as he looks at Oliver while Elio is already about to retreat. “Just... let me check again, monsieur. Sometimes, errors occur.”

He goes through his directory again, gazes over at the busy restaurant, back at Elio, then seems to make a decision.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I think I found you. The mistake was on our part. I apologize profusely. Let me guide you to your table.”

Oliver touches the small of Elio's back, fighting hard not to punch the air as they walk through the restaurant to be placed at a table for two in an alcove by a window overlooking a green courtyard.

“Merci.” Elio says as a waiter pulls the chair out for him and Oliver carefully helps him to hook his cane over its backrest.

“Excusez moi s'il vous plait. Let me bring you a bottle of Champagne to celebrate and make up for the inconvenience. On the house, of course.”

“Thank you. That's awfully kind.” Elio beams and the maîtré d' smiles back at them before he takes his leave.

“What the fuck?” Oliver whispers when they are alone.

“The perks of being disabled.” Elio grins, adjusting the Ray Bans.

“Nah. I believe it's your French.”

Elio feels for the linen napkin and dramatically shakes it out. “You like it?”

“Very much. Fits the film I've picked. And also... I wouldn't mind if you'd use your... language skills during further phone conversations.” He's blushing but Elio can't see it so it's okay.

“Ah, je savais que tu étais un pervers quand je t'ai rencontré pour la première fois.”

“Whatever that means, it makes me kinda... excited if you catch my drift.” Oliver lowers his voice as he leans closer to Elio.

“It means exactly that.” Elio’s fingers brush over the assorted forks, spoons and knifes on the table until Oliver takes his right hand. Elio stills, tilting his head in Oliver’s direction as the candle light flickers over his sharp features, the flame reflected in the dark glasses.

“Be careful, don’t cut yourself. These look sharp.” Oliver brings Elio’s fingertips to his lips and gently kisses them. Elio’s face breaks into a sardonic smile and then Oliver feels his right shin pressing against his left calf below the table.

They are about to kiss when a loud pang makes them sit back up straight again. A waiter has just uncorked their Champagne and is now filling two flutes, pressing one into Elio’s waiting raised hand.

“Happy Birthday, Oliver.” 

Oliver clinks his glass against the one Elio is holding.

“It's in July but never mind.” He mumbles when the waiter has left.

“I don't.” Elio quips and takes another swig. “But it's noted.”

They both open their menus.

“Uhm... should I read it to you?” Oliver asks after a moment.

“What's next, you wanna cut up my meat? I'm not a child, Oliver.” Elio's voice suddenly drips with contempt. He takes off the dark sunglasses, rubs the bridge of his nose, pulls his phone out and puts one earbud in his right ear. “Siri, open video chat. Call Martha.”

“What, now? Is this generation Instagram?” Oliver feels suddenly old and out of touch. This was supposed to be a romantic dinner! True, he mucked up, but does he deserve to be sidelined so Elio can chat with a friend? A female friend? While there’s Champagne on the table and the lights are low? “What is this, are you a food blogger now?” He realizes he sounds put out but can't help it.

“What?” Elio sounds still irritated. “My food hasn't even arrived. No, it's called _Be My Eyes_... it's an app... wait. Oh, hi Martha! It’s Elio. - Yeah, I'm fine. - I hope I don't disturb you? - Ups, okay... yeah, could you, please?” Elio goes through the menu, holding his phone more or less accurate above each page, sometimes nodding, sometimes correcting the angle while he seems to listen to what this Martha has to say. “Okay, do they have Sole cubat? Yes? - Great. - Hm, yes... oh... okay. Yeah, cool, thank you, bye-bye.” When he’s reached the last page of the hand-written menu he puts his phone down and grins. “I hope you don't mind when I indulge a little? It's been a while since I had authentic French cuisine.”

“Be my guest.” Oliver has been going through his menu as well, his mouth watering despite the truly outrageous prices. But then, up till now Elio has never ordered much. Indulgence for him might be asking for chicken breast with a plain salad as far as Oliver knows. At least he looks as wispy as if he lives on air and coffee alone. “Don't worry, just go for it.”

“Okay.”

Oliver signals their waiter.

“Oui?”

“Je prends Consommé celestine, Gnocchi romaine, Sole cubat, Gigot d'agneau roti sauce menthe et pour entrements Peche Melba. Merci.” Elio orders and Oliver feels his cock swell in his chinos as he listens to him pronounce these dishes. Definitely not a cheap date but Oliver would make him order even more courses if that meant he could listen to Elio’s rolling Rs, soft Ds and husky vowels.

As the waiter clears his throat Oliver becomes aware that he’s been staring, mesmerized. He quickly orders grilled asparagus, clams, coque au vin and Creme Brulée, a Sauvignon Blanc for himself and Bordeaux for Elio (who thankfully isn't carded, probably also due to the maîtré d').

“I approve.” Elio smirks. “Lots of protein. That’s promising.” The waiter hasn’t even left yet and Oliver feels his face heat. He pours them both more champagne – is that wise, though? Elio’s cheeks are already a little pink – simultaneously trapping his lower leg between his calves under the table, feeling Elio's strong, lean muscles flex as he tries to free himself.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to deal with you without any adjuvants.”

Elio subtly adjusts his napkin on his lap. “Good.”

“Would you like some baguette, monsieur?” The waiter asks.

“Yes, please.” Oliver holds his gaze and the waiter shuffles off, his face politely blank.

As they wait for their first course Oliver gets curious: “So, what's this be my eye thing?”

Elio puts down the piece of baguette he’s been nibbling. “Oh, it's an app. As a visually impaired person”, at this Elio points at himself, “you can use the video-chat to call a group of so-called volunteer helpers, or eyes. They are on stand-by and read to you what you are filming and sending them. It's actually really great. I mean, when I'm at home, for example, and I need to take meds... there's a short braille description on the package but... as I said, my braille is shit... and the information leaflet isn't in braille anyway. But I have to know the side effects. So I use _Be My Eyes_ and someone reads me the leaflet. Or washing instructions on clothes. Cooking recipes. Price tags in the supermarket. When I'm alone at home, what's in the fridge. Is it ketchup or mustard in that bottle? Things like that. Everyday things.”

“Restaurant menus.”

“Yes. Or bills.”

“Oh no, this is my treat. And we already got the Champagne on the house because of you.”

“Just never call me a cheap date again.” Elio's smile is radiant.

“I won't.”

The food is worth every cent. It's simply delicious.

They share most of it, Oliver picking from Elio's plates, feeding him bites of his. Elio's cheeks heat up even more and he seems relaxed and happy, presumably due to the wine, leaving him rosy and flushed as he talks about his childhood in Europe.

“Your coque au vin is delicious, true, but Mafalda is the best cook in the world. Her pasta! Her latkes! She used to make them for Hanukkah when I was little. We often went to the villa during that time. There was this big fireplace I sat in front of all day, roasting chestnuts or marshmallows until I got sick...”

Oliver loves to listen to him, telling him about people and places he’s never met and doesn’t know so vividly that he can actually imagine them.

“She also made apricot juice from the fruits growing in the orchard. We had a gardener, Anchise, who looked after the trees. I was a little afraid of him. He seemed sinister to me and I spend my days making up all sorts of stories about him.”

“What else did you do?” Oliver spears a piece of chicken before dunking some bread into the sauce.

“Read. Rode my bike. Swam in the river. Played piano.”

“You play piano.”

“I used to. I also transcribed music. But, after the accident, I chose dance. It was time to make a decision anyway. I couldn’t pursue both music and dance. And I wanted to do something physical, to feel my body again… What did you do during your childhood, Oliver? Tell me.”

It’s obvious that Elio wants to change the subject. It can’t be easy for him to dwell on these memories, on all the things he's lost. Oliver takes his time to answer, though, moving his food around on his plate. How much can he tell Elio without upsetting him? “Uhm... my dad's a businessman... He wasn't at home much. Home is Boston. But because my mother was... unwell, most of the time, me and my brother's grew up at boarding schools all over New England and spend our holidays mostly with my grandparents in Florida. So it was Disneyland, the beach, surfing until I was sixteen.”

“Oh.” Elio cuts a piece of his lamb – still pink inside – his expression shrewd, sharp. “What do you mean, unwell?”

Of course, he would pick up on that. But Oliver has decided that with Elio only honesty will do. It’s time to open up and show him what he’s getting into. “I didn't realize at the time, I thought she was just tired, or bored, or didn't love us, but as I grew up I realized that she was suffering from depression.” He puts down his fork and knife, crumbles up some bread. “I guess I'm still angry at her that she abandoned us. Kind of. At least it felt like she did. We're not close and seldom meet.”

“Oh, that's sad.” That's just a platitude people say but Elio looks like he means it. And maybe that's understandable, given that both his parents are dead.

“Well, it is what it is.”

“And your dad?”

“Would disinherit me if he knew I was taking a guy to a romantic dinner.”

Elio tilts his head to the side like a curious owl, frowning, his eyes big and dark. “Seriously?”

Oliver sighs. He usually hates talking about his family but with Elio it's different. Maybe because he doesn't offer empty sympathies?

“I'd always loved drawing and painting. But my father thought these were 'unmanly occupations'. Though he was basically never there he insisted I played football at school, took science classes. Then there was... an incident. I got caught with a boy. Well, that was it.” He swallows. There’s so much more he could say but that would ruin the evening. So he deflects by omission. “Until my marriage eventually reconciled my dad with me. He came to believe that I'd just been experimenting, fooled around, as he called it.”

“But you weren't.” Elio states.

“I think the concept of bisexuality is really beyond my father's grasp.” Oliver heartily bites into a chicken leg, savoring the taste, before knocking back a huge gulp of his Sauvignon Blanc.

When they finish their desserts, accompanied by two huge tumblers of Cognac, Oliver feels comfortably sloshed.

“God, that was... amazing. But you might have to roll me out of here.” He pats his stomach.

Elio laughs, pearly and bright. “That bad?”

“Well, I know myself. Let’s go or I’ll order some cheese. I'm just glad you had an healthy appetite.”

“Yeah, I'll skip the popcorn at the cinema.”

Oliver settles the bill, adding a huge tip. It somehow feels like an amount well spent to woe Elio.

“What are we watching?” Elio sounds excited.

Oliver is glad that they are out on the sidewalk. The fresh air helps clear his head. It’s just a short walk, though, only a few blocks. Elio has taken his arm and kept his cane folded. If you didn’t know you would never think him blind. He’s so close that his curls brush Oliver’s neck as they navigate the busy New York pedestrian traffic. He smells of wine and the sweet peach and vanilla he had for dessert.

“À bout de souffle.”

Elio giggles, maybe because Oliver pronounces it like “A boot do soufflè”, before repeating it properly. “I've never seen it.” 

Despite it being a small art house cinema, they offer audio description for download on the phone. Oliver had checked in advance. As they are still full they just get two cokes before settling down into their seats.

When the lights go down he takes Elio's hand.

Oliver loves the atmosphere of the movie – and both Belmondo and Jean Seberg. But what he loves even more is Elio snuggling up to him, grabbing his thigh, not letting go of it until the film ends.

Oliver allows his mouth to brush the soft shell of Elio's ear, his neck, even his cheek from time to time in the dark auditorium. Elio hums in approval as he slides down in his seat while his hand on Oliver’s leg travels higher.

This is promising.

Oliver doesn’t understand much of the dialogue but the plot isn’t hard to follow even when making out with a pretty boy. Only when Michel dies at the end Oliver wonders if he chose the right film.

But when the lights come on again Elio doesn’t seem to mind.

“Wow, thank you. That was... so real. Unpretentious. Bleak, but great.”

“Not too crushing?”

“It’s just a movie, Oliver.” Elio is smiling.

“Okay, what now?” Oliver asks as they leave, feeling a little dizzy though the alcohol must have worn off by now. “Shall we get a night cap somewhere?” There's a lump in his throat. He sincerely hopes Elio doesn’t want to say good-night just now.

“I have a better idea. Can you get us a taxi?”

“Sure.”

It just takes a moment for a car to stop. They get into the backseat and Elio gives the driver an address in the Meatpacking District.

“Where are we going?” Oliver asks but he doesn’t really care as long as he can spend more time with Elio.

“Now it’s my turn to surprise you.”

 

\--------

Here's the painted version of the drawing:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be My Eyes is a real thing: https://www.bemyeyes.com/
> 
> Also, my old tumblr got deleted last night so you can now find me at [Istillwonderwhy](https://istillwonderwhy.tumblr.com/). Please, hit me up and follow me, I lost everything over there :)


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night part two - and some of you guessed right, they go clubbing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I really, really wanted to get to the smut in this chapter but then it got longer and longer and the boys got distracted... I promise, NEXT chapter finally something will be happening between them while they're in the same bed!
> 
> Oh, and I got my blog back so if you want to hit me up I'm Isitandwonder on tumblr once again.

Elio tells the taxi driver to stop at the corner of Washington and West 13th Street. He gets out his wallet to pay their fare but Oliver tells him to put it away as he'll see to it. Elio protests but when the driver coughs impatiently and Oliver insists he just shrugs and climbs out from the back seat, waiting on the sidewalk until he senses Oliver standing next to him.

“Okay. There should be lights. A low building just the other side of the high line.” He says, reaching for Oliver, who takes his hand, holds it. “It's called-”

“ _’Front’_. I see it.” Yet Oliver sounds a little worried.

“Okay. Let's go.” Elio unfolds his cane and as it hits the pavement he tries to determine the right direction. There’s the curb so there must be a crossing somewhere to the left…

But Oliver hesitates.

“What? Come on.” Elio tugs at Oliver's hand but when he doesn't move he takes a step back towards him.

“It looks like there's a queue. A long queue.” Now Oliver sounds outright anxious.

“Yeah, it usually is on a Saturday night. Just walk me up to the entrance.” 

“And then what? You'll play your trick on the bouncers? Need my dark glasses again?”

“No. Actually, I'm a regular. They know me.”

This time, when Elio starts to walk Oliver follows, albeit reluctantly, but Elio doesn’t let go of his hand,outright dragging him along. 

“There should be a traffic light?” He says.

“Yeah, we're almost there.”

Elio stands close to Oliver as they wait for the lights to change.

“Relax. You’ll like it.” He leans into Oliver’s warmth and he puts his arm around Elio’s shoulders.

“If you say so.” It sounds unconvinced but when he guides Elio onto the other side of the street he doesn’t remove his hold. 

As they walk towards to the club, Elio picks up the murmur of the people waiting, their laughs, shrieks, the nervous, buzzing energy.

Until Oliver stops.

“What? Are we there?” He drags his cane around but it doesn't hit the few steps leading up to the entrance.

“Elio... I...” It sounds as if Oliver is about to bolt.

“What's the matter?” He turns in Oliver’s grasp, feeling for his free arm, sliding his fingers down until he can entwine them with Oliver’s. Squeezes. No ring.

“It's just... God, Elio, these kids look so... hip. Trendy.” Oliver has lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

“So what?”

“I just feel... underdressed. Old.”

It occurs to Elio that he has no idea how old exactly Oliver is. He doesn't think he's past thirty but maybe he's mistaken? Anyway, does it really matter?

“I don't care. Age is just a number.” Now's not the time to inquire, not when Oliver already feels uncomfortable. 

Instead, he hooks his cane over his wrist so he can touch Oliver’s shoulders and chest with his free hand. Oliver's wearing a suit jacket and a shirt. The fabric feels cool, slippery, but it's not silk. “And I think you look just fine.” He leans closer until his face brushes against Oliver's skin. There's hard bone beneath smooth, warm skin, some coarse hair tickling Elio’s cheek.

Collarbone, neck, base of his throat.

God, Oliver smells nice.

“I never go clubbing these days. It’s been ages-“

“Don't worry. Let's just have fun.” Elio mouths against his throat before leaning up, his nose brushing the stubble on Oliver's yaw. He feels his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

“I will embarrass you.” Oliver mumbles.

Elio grins. “How? I can’t see you. Even if you lose the beat.”

“That would mean me dancing. No way!”

“Oh, you will.” 

“I never dance.”

“That's a shame.”

“Not when you’re 6’5 and stick out like a sore thumb.”

Elio sighs. “You took me to a museum. Now let me introduce you to my world.”

He waits, feeling the thudding deep beats emanating from the club between his shoulder blades while he listens to Oliver breathe. He's still hesitating but Elio's sure he's talked him around.

And he's right, because after a moment Oliver straightens a little and says: “Right. Of course. Sorry for being a spoilsport.”

Without further delay Oliver leads them up to the entrance.

“Elio, tesoro!” A Strong hand grips his upper arm almost painfully.

“Ciao! Marco, is it? This is my… This is Oliver.”

“Ciao Oliver.” The bouncer roars, and when he hears Oliver wince Elio knows he’s been subjected to a bear-hug. “Come on, you two, go in. It's already packed so keep an eye on him, Oliver. He's like the Duracell bunny when he hears music.” Oliver snorts a laugh.

“Sure.”

As they walk through the door they are hit by a wall of moist heat. Inside the club, the air is humid with sweat, vibrating with a bass that punches you right in the solar plexus. Elio's skin starts to prickle as he brushes against other people, Oliver's hand at the small of his back guiding him gently forward.

“There should be an alcove to our left, next to the bar.” He has to yell so Oliver can hear him over the music. “We can put our jackets there. And my cane. Then you can get us drinks.”

“What are you having?”

“Just water.” He folds his cane and slides his leather jacket off. While Oliver is gone, Elio drifts steadily closer to the dance floor, his body already moving to the cascading rhythm. It takes Oliver a few minutes to return – now just in his shirt as well by the feel of it as a bare forearm brushes Elio's hand.

“Here, your water.” Oliver presses a plastic bottle into his palm. “Uhm, Elio...?”

“Yeah?” Elio unscrews the lid and drinks.

“Is this a gay club?”

“Yes, Oliver, this is a gay club.” Elio can't suppress a grin.

“Hey, it's not... I was just checking. I've been to gay clubs before.” He sounds both defensive and amused.

“Have you?” Elio can't help it, it's fun to tease Oliver a little. “I thought you don't dance.”

“I didn't go to those clubs for the dancing.”

“Then what-?”

Suddenly, Oliver's voice is very close. “Elio Perlman, you've no idea what I've been up to when I was younger.”

Elio swallows. “Enlighten me?”

“You wish.” Oliver's hand cups his face for a second, warm and solid, before he pulls back.

Elio feels a shiver run down his back despite the heat radiating from the mass of dancing bodies around them. “Ready?” He asks but doesn't wait for an answer as he turns to follow the flowing, stomping beats like it’s a siren call, allowing the crowd to swallow and embrace him, them, taking Oliver by the hand again. “You heard Marco, I need constant supervision.”

“I'm not sure...” Oliver protests but Elio just drags him further until he feels the slick metal dance-floor beneath the soles of his boots.

He turns, pulling Oliver close, pressing his body against him. “Stop thinking. Stop worrying. Just... go with it.”

And Elio allows the music to take over. The bass is deep, a hypnotic cadence, but there are spherical, pearly sounds mixed into it, adding another layer to the song.

Elio’s body almost moves on its own, gyrating, twitching, finding the flow. He doesn’t think anymore, doesn’t hold back. He’s weightless; it’s like flying, or diving in dark, unknown waters. This is where he can be carefree. 

He raises his arms above his head and feels Oliver's body against his, still a little stiff, barely moving.

Elio is an extrovert dancer. He doesn't care what others think of him. He can't see them. So there's no point worrying how he looks. Besides, he's pretty sure dancing is something he's really good at. So why should he be shy or self-conscious? He just loves it! So he shows it – and maybe shows off a little, but so what?

Oliver seems to be a bit more reluctant. Elio didn’t anticipate that this would be so far out of his comfort zone. He thought all artists were some sort of outgoing showmen. Apparently not.

He brings his arms around Oliver’s neck, already a little sweaty, but bends his upper body backwards in an elongated cambré derrière, now outright hanging off Oliver’s body, spine arched, throat exposed, their hips pressed together.

Oliver automatically grips his waist to steady him. Gotcha!

Elio’s hands let go of Oliver and now it’s only his strong hold supporting him, otherwise he’d gracelessly fall to the ground. Gravity pulls him even lower until his fingertips brush the floor. He must look bend over backwards in half.

He lets his arms sway to the rhythm, until his whole upper body is slightly swerving from left to right.

Oliver gasps but doesn’t let go.

Elio feels his shirt ride up, exposing his lower belly. It clings to his chest, restraining his movement.

He straightens back up again as the song changes to something slower, thick beats dripping off the walls of the club, wrapping them in a cloak of sound. Oliver is still holding him as he starts to unbutton his shirt.

“You're very... flexible.” Oliver shouts over the music.

“Comes in handy sometime.”

He hears Oliver snicker. “God, you're a handful.” He pokes him in the side, his fingers digging in just below his ribcage and Elio squeaks.

“Don't destroy the mood.” His shirt is now hanging open, allowing his body to cool. He leans forward until his forehead rests on Oliver's shoulder. They are barely moving but there's a spark buzzing between them like a life wire.

Where's his water bottle gone? Elio is suddenly thirsty.

When he tries to take a step back to make his way over to where he thinks the bar must be Oliver's grip tightens. Elio grins.

“What?” Oliver asks, speaking directly into his ear.

“Possessive.”

“If you could see what I see... there're at least three guys around us who are positively drooling over you.”

“And that's a problem because...?”

“It's not a problem. Because it's me who takes you home.”

Elio leans close again, meeting Oliver's body. His big hands skim up his sides, touching his heated skin below the silk of his open shirt before sliding down his back, resting just above his ass.

“Then let's at least give them a good show so they're fully aware what they're missing.” Elio shrugs of his shirt altogether and stuffs its collar into the backpocket of his jeans. 

Oliver makes a little noise between a cough and a groan. “You.Are.Unbelievable.” He tells Elio before nudging his thigh between Elio's legs so he can rut against it. A moment later, a hand in his curls pulls his head back and then he's kissed, hard at first, getting gentler as Oliver's urge seems to morph into something more tender.

Finally, they dance, letting the music overtake them, becoming one with the beat, the heat, the oscillating grooves. Oliver stays close, and as he's getting hotter Elio can smell him even better – fresh sweat beneath that spicy, expensive cologne.

It's intoxicating.

Elio looses all track of time. It's just him and Oliver and music. He wants to stay here forever as the rhythm becomes their heartbeat until he can't tell where he ends and Oliver begins. They are melting into one being, or rather a sound, a harmonic chord, vibrating forever, attuning their frequencies. But is it f major or g minor?

Eventually, Elio's too hot and thirsty and signals for Oliver that he needs some air and another drink.

There's a courtyard at the back with a bar where the smokers gather. Elio hears Oliver lighting one up as soon as they step outside.

“Want one?”

“Better not.” Elio shakes his head. He already feels a little dizzy. “Can you get me some more water, please?”

As he reaches out he feels a rough wall he can lean on, fanning himself with his hands to cool down.

“Sure. Just wait here. But better put your shirt back on or you might catch death.”

“Yes, daddy.” Elio mocks him but he knows Oliver is right. And he can't afford a cold right now as it would set his training back.

Oliver makes another of his very peculiar sounds and playfully slaps Elio's ass before walking off.

As Elio waits he can smell others smoking around him – not only cigarettes as the sweet scent of pot wafting through the air – talking in low voices sometimes pierced by shrieks or a loud laugh.

Suddenly, he senses a presence next to him. It's not Oliver, he's pretty sure.

His only reaction is to hunch his shoulders as he turns his head the other way. This should signal whoever's standing there that he's really not interested.

But apparently, he's too subtle.

“Come here often?” A low voice asks.

Elio really doesn't want to engage and just shrugs.

“Hey, I'm over here. Can't you even look at me?”

The man is closer now, his shoulder brushing Elio's. He's about to retort that he really can't when a hand wraps around his jaw and forcefully turns his face.

“I saw you on the dancefloor-”

Elio yanks his head away and takes a step back, one hand pressed against the wall to steady himself and not to loose his orientation.

“Don't touch me!” He spits.

“Oh, kitten got claws.”

“Fuck off!” Elio hisses.

“Hey, I just want to buy you a drink. Don't freak out.” The man must have taken another step towards Elio because he can feel his body heat and smell the sweetness of Red Bull on his breath.

“Thank you, I don't want a drink from you.” Elio forces himself to stand his ground. He knows that showing fear only turns predators on. “My boyfriend's getting me one already.”

“Oh, I don't mind. That tall blond guy? I'll take you both home.” The man laughs, deep and husky.

“Sorry, but we're not into this sort of thing.” Oliver's voice is steady, coming from behind Elio's left shoulder. “Everything alright here?” He asks, and Elio hears the threat loud and clear. He's pretty sure Oliver would stop being polite should he deny the question.

“Uhm... yeah... apologies... never mind. No offense, guys.” The stranger is already retreating.

“None taken.” Oliver says but Elio stays alert and quiet until Oliver leans close and whispers: “He's gone.”

“Good.”

When Oliver presses a cold water bottle against Elio's heated cheek he jumps a little. “Sorry, I went for a piss as well. I shouldn't have left you alone for so long-”

“Oliver, I'm not a blushing maiden, I can defend myself alright, that wasn't the first guy who hit on me.”

“Nonetheless.” Oliver gently kisses his forehead and that gesture calms Elio. “I was negligent. Besides, don't use the toilets here. The things I've seen...”

Elio has to laugh. “Oh, I'm sure I did at least one or two of these things myself.”

“Should I take the experience as inspiration then?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How this evening is going to end.”

Oliver softly laughs and Elio empties his water bottle. He hears Oliver light up another cigarette.

“So, what do you think?” He asks.

“I think I love to watch you dance.”

“Thank you.” Elio curtsies in his best ballerina fashion, smirking.

“I also think half the club wants to fuck you.”

Elio's pulse speeds up hearing Oliver talk so boldly. “Is that so?”

“Definitely. Not just this one guy.” Suddenly, Oliver's hand caresses his still bare sternum, parting his silk shirt he left unbuttoned.

“Then aren't you lucky that none of them stands a chance?”

He can hear Oliver crunch his cigarette stub on the gravel.

“My place?” He asks.

“Unless you want to get cross-examined by Chiara and Nguyen in the morning.”

“I'm not too keen on that.” Oliver entwines their fingers and closes the distance between them, pressing Elio back against the rough wall until their bodies are touching from knee to chest. “Are you sure? This is not too fast?”

“I'm sure.” He is.

“Okay, lets go.”

Thank god their jackets are still where Oliver put them. As they stumble out of the club, Marco wishes them a good night, ushering them over to an already waiting taxi.

They are quiet during the drive over to Cooper Village, holding hands in the backseat, Oliver's thumb gently stroking Elio's knuckles. 

The silence makes him a little nervous. He usually doesn't go home with men. Too dangerous. It's true, he comes to _'Front'_ often but not to hook up. He goes there to dance. Okay, there has been the odd hand job in the toilets but it's always a risk and usually not worth it in the end. He hates to admit it but his condition is a huge hindrance for casual sex.

Or maybe he's just not into that sort of thing, as much as he likes to pretend that he's wild and independent?

This thing with Oliver, however, feels like more than a nameless, faceless one-night stand. But is he really ready?

He'll have to meet Oliver again on Tuesday regardless how this night ends. What if it gets... weird? Elio has heard of rather bizarre things guys want to do with disabled sex partners. It's the source of many jokes at dorm parties at Gimp Tower: There's apparently a fetish for amputees as a wheely told him once. 'She really got herself off rubbing her pussy against my stump, man.' A deaf-mute girl nearly got raped in the basement collecting her washing – she couldn't hear her attacker approaching nor could she scream to attract attention but the guy didn't know that she was a kick-boxing champion which saved her.

Too soon, Elio stands on the sidewalk, feeling a little queasy as Oliver pays another fare. Is this a good idea?

“Okay, it's on nine o'clock.” Oliver takes his hand, opens a door, leads him through what sounds like a lobby judging by the echoes of their footsteps until they stop after rounding a corner. “The lift.” Oliver explains. The air smells of generic floor polish, like in a hospital or in college.

Elio nods. His hand has gone a little sweaty in Oliver's grip. He hopes he doesn't mind.

When the elevator pings Elio hears Oliver great someone. A neighbor? A female voice wishes a good night right back at him. She sounds a little irritated. Oliver doesn't let go of Elio's hand.

When they exit it's only a short walk up to Oliver's apartment door.

“Okay... uhm... come in.” Elio hears Oliver fumble with the keys. It takes him a moment to unlock the door.

Inside, the first scent Elio catches is that of oil paint. He waits after stepping over the threshold, taking a deep breath.

Yes, this place smells like Oliver.

“Wanna give me your jacket?”

Elio shrugs it off, holds it out. Oliver takes it.

“Shall I describe the apartment to you so you get an idea where you are?”

“Yes, please.” Elio relaxes a little. He's always a bit tense when he's somewhere unfamiliar and has no idea about the layout of a place.

“We're in my tiny, tiny entrance hall... it's nothing much, really, just prevents you from walking right into the living room. Which has a huge window, one reason we moved here. Rachel and me, that is.” He goes quiet for a moment. “From there, one door leads into an equally small kitchen. And the other into the... bedroom.”

“Okay.” Elio nods.

“There's a rather questionable sofa straight ahead. If you want to sit down. Drink?”

“Yes, please.” Elio is grateful. He needs something to take the edge off.

Oliver hands him his cane and Elio carefully sets one foot in front of the other until his shin bumps into soft cushions. He hears Oliver to his left, probably in the kitchen.

“I have white wine, beer, or scotch.”

Elio lowers himself onto the couch. It's corduroy, the fabric incredibly soft under his fingers.

“Scotch, please.”

“Okay...?” He hears the question in Oliver's voice.

“I'm not such a lightweight that I will throw up all over your carpet.”

“Not that it would matter.” Oliver assures him, pressing a glass into his hand. “It's quite worn, full of paint splashes.”

“Yes, I can smell it. So you paint in here?”

“I used to. Not anymore.”

“But you still keep your stuff in here, whatever that is... cleanser, oil paint? The scent is quite strong.”

“I have... unfinished work here. But I haven't taken up a brush in months.”

“Why not?” Elio somehow thinks he knows the answer but an irresistible urge forces him to press on. If this thing between them is going anywhere he needs to know the truth about Oliver's emotional state – even if it might hurt.

“Because... it's a portrait of Rachel. And I just can't bring myself to finish it.”

Elio takes a sip of his drink. The liquor burns down his throat. “Yeah, I get that. It needs time to deal with loosing someone you loved.” He's just glad that Oliver has been honest with him, not trying to sugarcoat that he still mourns his wife. It could be a good start.

“How did you manage?” Oliver asks, his voice full of hope.

Elio laughs without humor. “Not sure I did.” He knocks back his glass, coughs. "I mean... there are better and worse days? And the better days become more frequent. And then, when you think you've got over it, that you've got a grip, made progress, something happens and throws you right back to zero. My mama's birthday... that's always a bad day. But sometimes the smell of apricots is enough and I'm back in Italy, at our villa... and I just can't keep it together." He feels tears well up in his eyes and aggressively wipes them with the back of his hand.

“Sorry, did I ruin the mood?” Now Oliver sounds miserable. “We shouldn't talk about the dead on a date.”

Elio sighs. “God, we're messed up, aren't we?” He carefully puts his glass down onto the floor. “But... it's good for once... to talk with someone who understands.” He reaches out until his fingertips brush against Oliver. He's touching... his shoulder? Yes. There's muscle, a knobby joint. Elio allows his hand to wander until it reaches the open neck of Oliver's shirt. “But I somehow think you took me here for another reason?” He's done talking about death. He needs to feel alive.

Oliver stays silent, tensing at Elio's touch

“Ye-es. But right now... god, I'm so sorry but I'm not sure anymore... Would you mind-?”

Elio pulls his hand back so fast as if burned, sits up ramrod straight, drawing up his shoulders. Did he come on too fast, was he too honest? He did just commiserate himself but maybe Oliver isn't ready either? Is he getting cold feet? Does he try to gently let Elio down? “No, of course not. Just call me a taxi or-”

But Oliver grabs his wrist like he did some weeks ago at the cafeteria, his thumb brushing over Elio's pulse.

“No. Please. Stay. Like... let's just... go to bed. And maybe, tomorrow... you know? I just... I want to take you to bed and... hold you. Is that okay? Or do you think I'm... creepy? It's been so long... I just don't want to be alone anymore.” Oliver chokes. Is he sobbing?

Elio feels a lump in his throat as well as he scoots up the couch, over to where he's sure Oliver is sitting. When his knees hit his thigh he holds his breath, leaning down until his head comes to rest against Oliver's shoulder. He's so strong, warm, solid. And he really wants Elio here, in his apartment, his bed – and maybe in his life? “Yes, please. I mean... no. God. I mean, yes to the bed thing and no to being creepy... Anyway, I'd like that. All of it. Very much.”

He's babbling, his anxiety kicking in. Because he can't see how Oliver perceives his words, his touch. He could be horrified, or embarrassed, or turned off or bored or- 

All goes quiet in Elio's head when Oliver raises his face with two fingers beneath his chin, tenderly kissing his lips. It's a bit of a shock but then not.

It's good. It's all they need right now.

“Okay. Fine. Great.” Oliver murmurs against his lips, making Elio smile. He dares to open up and suddenly no words are needed anymore as they hum contently into each others mouths while increasingly bold hands explore willing, yielding flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no club called Front anymore and never was in New York. It's a homage to my hometown and we went there dancing 30 years ago. Here's a set of what it used to sound like back in the day: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yB7a2nEpthA
> 
> I somehow fantasize that Elio and Oliver still dance to House music.
> 
> This is a cambré derrière:


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we go. Finally, they find their way into bed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you'll like what I did with _that_ scene from the book.

Despite their kind of sobering, gloomy conversation things are quickly getting steamy on the sofa. Oliver can't stop himself, he pulls Elio in his lap so the boy is straddling him. They kiss, touch… okay, not just ‘touch’. That sounds too innocent. Elio's nimble fingers have unbuttoned Oliver’s shirt and are now stroking his chest (giggling, that boy has the audacity to giggle, calling him a super furry animal!), his abs, massages his nipples with the palms of his slender hands until Oliver is close to bend him over the dining table he's never used since last summer and fuck him until he screams...

Without a warning, Elio grinds down on him, and he's already hard in his tight trousers that leave nothing to the imagination. As they hadn't done all night. Oliver had almost come in his pants like a teenager watching Elio dance at the club. And he'd not been the only one by the look of the guys around them...

No wonder someone had taken the opportunity to chat Elio up the second Oliver had gone to fetch some drinks. It still makes his blood boil. Elio is his!

Remembering Elio swaying and gyrating to the music has Oliver on the verge of losing control. He can't believe that he finally has this beautiful boy, to who's drawings he's masturbated countless times, right where he always wanted him. Still, he almost jumps and knocks him off balance when Elio reaches between them to palm his crotch.

“Jesus fuck me! How big are you?” Elio hotly gasps against his neck, his forehead resting against Oliver's shoulder, trying - and failing - to take all of Oliver in hand. The sight of Elio’s delicate fingers on his fly makes Oliver’s head swim with possibilities.

“Big. Very big.” Oliver usually would have blushed but Elio sounds so full of innocent wonder that for once he isn't embarrassed for being 'hung like a horse' as some of his fellow classmates had boldly put it in high-school.

Elio sits back a little, swallowing, while Oliver gently strokes his back. He's still feeling Oliver up.

“Wow... that's...” Elio's face blushes as he licks his lower lip, uncertainty battling with arousal in his expression.

Oliver covers his hand on his cock with his own. “I know. Don't worry. We don't have to... not tonight. Or even soon. Sleeping, remember, that’s the plan. And then, maybe tomorrow, if you still want to, there'll be plenty of time to prepare you... or the other way around, if you prefer. It's been a while for me, so-”

“Kiss me.” Elio cuts him off, opening his mouth so wide that it feels as if he wants to eat Oliver alive.

God, that mouth! That wicked, wicked mouth.

Without saying anything else, Oliver just grabs Elio's ass and stands up, easily lifting his lithe body. Elio still possesses the presence of mind – or maybe it's just survival instinct – to wrap his legs around Oliver's waist, clinging to him while simultaneously laughing and kissing.

Oliver somehow manages to get them both into the bedroom without knocking anything over, carefully lowering Elio onto the mattress, bracketing him.

He looks devastatingly gorgeous; breathless, flushed, curls fanning out on the comforter, his hands still clutching Oliver's shoulders.

“Let me undress you.” Oliver whispers, sitting back long enough to switch on the bedside lamp.

He can see Elio nod, biting his lips.

Oliver takes his time, slowly unbuttoning Elio’s slick silk shirt, revealing more and more of his creamy skin, from his surprisingly muscled yet lean torso down to the six-pack of his stomach. Staring at Elio’s toned body makes Oliver for a moment perversely grateful that Elio can't see him in return. It's not that Oliver is fat or has a pouch – on the contrary, he'd lost a lot of weight during and after Rachel's illness – but his body simply can't compete with this work of art, shaped and sculpted by endless hours of training.

Still, Oliver decides in this moment to go for a run more often, like he used to, before he had to spend all his time in a sickroom, watching his wife succumb to the cancer assaulting her, powerless, sometimes secretly wishing it would all be over…

“Talk to me.” Elio's voice brings him back, gets him out of his head, dispersing the smell of disinfectant, vomit, fear and, ultimately, death that has started to flood Oliver’s senses.

“You're so fucking beautiful.” Oliver tells him because it's true and has to be said out loud before kissing down Elio's sternum, dipping his tongue into his navel, making him shudder and shriek. “And really loud.”

Oliver nibbles lower, following a trail of fine dark hair until his mouth meets the waistband of Elio's jeans.

“You like that?” Is Elio's voice trembling? Good. He wants to take him apart inch by inch.

“Very much.”

Somehow, Elio's hands find their way into Oliver's hair, tugging until he moans.

“And you like _that_ as well...”

“Yeah...” Oliver's breath ghosts over Elio's lower belly, still wet from his kisses, goosebumps forming in its wake.

He stares, then slides off the bed, kneeling between Elio's spread thighs. First, he removes his boots and socks, kneading his feet in his hands for a moment. Strong arches, calloused toes, slim ankles...

When Elio reaches for his fly Oliver swats his hand away. “Let me.”

“Well, then finally _do it_!” Elio snaps.

“You're such an impatient brat, Elio Perlman. I should...”

“Yeah?” Elio raises his head, leaning up on his elbows. His hair is a mess by then, his lips swollen, his pale skin flushed blotchy pink down to his exposed abdomen. “What should you do with me, Professor Weizmann?”

_'Put you over my knee. Spank your cute little ass until it's as red as your filthy mouth. Pull your hair and bend you over my desk and... Jesus, Oliver, take it slow. He's barely legal!’_

“Teach you some manners.” He decides to say.

“Yes, please, Sir.” Elio falls back onto the bed.

That fucking tease!

To punish him, Oliver decides to strip first before freeing Elio's erection, standing up to take his own shoes and trousers off.

Too fast. He hadn't thought this move through... for Elio shoots up from the bed, turning his head left and right, panic widening his unseeing eyes. “Where're you going? Oliver? What? Too much? I'm sorry-”

_'God, Oliver, you're such an idiot! He doesn't know what's happening.'_

Oliver almost stumbles and topples onto the bed as he tries to kick off his pants as quickly as possible, simultaneously talking to Elio to reassure and calm him: “Sorry, I'm here, I'm still here, just taking my clothes off... shit, sorry, babe.”

When Elio reaches for him he goes with it, crawling all over him, finally unbuttoning Elio's jeans, pulling the tight denim down his sculpted thighs.

Oliver swears that Elio's legs are at least a mile long!

Finally, they are both just in their boxers – Oliver's dark-red silk, Elio's tight black cotton – lying next to each other, just breathing. Elio's arousal is visible, the head of his cock almost poking from the elastic.

“You're really not going to fuck me tonight, are you?” He asks, his voice small, all bravado gone as his right hand tugs at Oliver's chest hair.

“We should take our time with that. I want to... make it good for you.”

“So what do you suggest we do now?” Elio's hand slides lower and Oliver mimics his action, his hand so large it almost covers Elio's entire belly.

“That’s up to you. What do you want? What do you like?”

When Elio's hand closes around Oliver's still clothed erection once again his hips stutter, bucking up.

“Oh my god. I'll need a lot of preparation to take that.” Elio whispers while searching for the slit in Oliver's boxers, slipping two fingers inside when he's found it. Oliver watches as he strokes him beneath the silk, a dark wet spot forming on the front of his burgundy underwear.

“Can I touch you too?” He asks, his voice rough with arousal.

“Yes, please.”

Elio's cock feels like his whole body looks: lean, hard, elegant. He moans when Oliver wraps his hand around him, his eyes glazing over.

They rub and stroke each other, slow at first but soon getting more and more desperate, frantic, soft gasps mixing with sloppy kisses. 

It doesn't take long. 

Oliver is so keyed up he shoots his load after barely two minutes, a blinding orgasm making him bite down on Elio's shoulder. He hears Elio groan – presumably in pain - but is unable to suppress the impulse, only lifting his head when his body is drained, a long-lost peace coming over him. The dark-purple mark he’s left on Elio’s skin seems to be throbbing in sync with Oliver’s accelerated heartbeat.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice slurred from climaxing.

When Elio vigorously shakes his head cold fear sobers Oliver up rather quickly. What has he done? He should have himself better under control-

“I still need you, Professor Weizmann. Please, make me come.” Elio’s cum-covered hand smears Oliver's release all over his chest before sucking one finger in his mouth, grinning around it.

Oliver grabs his wrist and almost violently pulls that finger back out. “Don’t!”

Elio's still grinning. “What?”

This is not the right time to educate Elio on safer sex but Oliver’s foggy mind still takes a note to have that talk with him later. But right now he has other priorities.

The lewd smile is wiped off Elio's face when Oliver pulls his pants down and starts to jerk him off in earnest until the only noises he makes are desperate grunts, his hands fisting the comforter.

Oliver has seen Elio's cock at least a dozen times before; regarding that this is their first time, Oliver has actually seen Elio naked alarmingly often – but never in such a state.

There's no shame in his nudity, though. It all feels so easy, natural... Elio's slippery cock is surprisingly dark against his pale thighs and stomach, the short black curls at its base soft and silky. He's kicked his boxers all the way off, almost kneeing Oliver in the face, to spread his legs wide, without any modesty or shyness, exposing himself fully for Oliver, showing him a downy dusting of hair leading all the way from his balls to his entrance: a pink furl of muscle looking so tight that Oliver's brain almost short-circuits at the thought of fucking into it.

He has to touch. Just a little…

When Oliver presses the dry pad of his index finger against Elio's rim he yelps, arching off the mattress.

“Yes, god... fuck!” He screams.

Definitely loud, holding nothing back.

Elio's eyes stay open the whole time, even as his arms and legs start twitching and his head is lolling from side to side. His blind stare should feel unsettling but doesn't. Instead, Oliver loves being allowed to see all the emotions playing out on Elio’s face: need, giddiness, yearning, bliss, surprise… Oliver watches him, mesmerized, until Elio begs: “Touch me... there. Just there. Please.”

And so Oliver decidedly rubs two fingers against Elio’s hole, pumping his cock in time, and about thirty seconds later he feels warm wetness in his palm, thickly seeping through his fingers.

“God, that was good.” Elio hums after he got his breath back, scooting even closer so Oliver wraps first his arm and then the bedspread around him, just holding him, slowly stroking Elio's sweaty back under the covers.

“We should clean up.” He suggests after some minutes when Elio's breathing has started to even out.

“Nooo.” He whines. “Later.” He snuggles closer, sighing. But when he entwines his legs with Oliver’s he suddenly sounds almost shocked: “Are you still wearing your socks?”

Oliver chuckles. “There wasn’t time-“

“This is unbelievable. Oh my god! Don’t tell anyone you wore socks during our first time.” Elio buries his face in Oliver’s armpit, inhaling deeply, while all Oliver can do is staring at the darkening bitemark on Elio’s shoulder. He’ll have to tell him about it. Later.

“Well, I think it looks rather sexy.”

“I'm pretty sure it doesn't.” Elio quips. “Don't take advantage of my defenseless state by doing things like this. What's next, white socks in open sandals? Pleated jeans? Tweed jackets with leather patches o the elbows? How old are you even?” 

As an answer, Oliver swats his hip with his broad hand, making him groan.

Oh, Elio… is that boy aware that he’s pushing all of Oliver’s buttons?

“Old enough to be the responsible adult here. Come on. You don't want us sticking together in the morning.” He gets up, his soiled boxers clinging uncomfortably to his cooling skin, and pulls a still reluctant Elio behind him into the small bathroom until a howl stops him dead in his tracks.

When he turns Elio is hopping on one feet, his face contorted in pain. “Toe…” he manages to bite out.

“Shit, sorry, I… sorry…” Oliver grabs Elio around his shoulder instead and they limp over into the bath on three legs.

There, Oliver carefully sits Elio down on the edge of the tub. His release has started to congeal in his dark pubes like glistening diamonds while his cock is still plump and engorged, veined, the exposed tip an angry red, yet he looks almost endearingly vulnerable.

Oliver wants to fall on his knees and worship him, take him into his mouth, suck and lick him until Elio would curse and whimper with over-sensitivity.

Instead, he applies a warm washcloth. Elio sighs with pleasure, holding onto his shoulders, parting his legs once again so Oliver can reach between them.

When Oliver has cleaned up himself as well and thrown his dirty underwear and the flannel into his hamper – hoping that maybe Elio might forget to collect his own shorts still lying somewhere between the sheets – he leads them both back into the bedroom. Elio's able to walk again and is quite pliant, his eyelids drooping. Oliver guides him to the edge of the bed before searching in his closet for a t-shirt.

In the end, he hands Elio one he’d bought in Milan years ago, a cheap gray thing showing the Duomo that he’d washed too hot one time but couldn’t part with because of sentimental reasons. As all of his pants would simply fall off Elio's slim hips he doesn't bother searching for boxers (rather liking the idea of Elio being half-naked in bed next to him) as he puts on a pink t-shirt and boxer-briefs himself before climbing into bed, wrapping an already half-asleep Elio in his arms, spooning him from behind.

“Night, Oliver.” Elio mumbles.

“Night, Elio.” Oliver answers before switching off the light.

Oliver wakes up slowly the next morning, feeling unusually relaxed. He blinks lazily and realizes that the sun is already shining through the blinds. Normally, he jerks awake at dawn after just a few hours of dozing. Yet he sees it as a huge improvement being able to sleep at all.

During the last stages of Rachel’s illness he’d become an insomniac…

But today it’s so cozy in bed that he decides to linger and just closes his eyes again, breathing in the stale, warm bedroom air, languidly stretching before hugging the pillow once more, pulling it close, nuzzling it...

Only, this pillow is slightly damp, strangely angular and apparently has… hair?

Should he open his eyes and bring this fantasy to an abrupt end or should he indulge a little while longer?

He's spared to make a decision because the pillow squirms. Groans.

“The fuck?! Where... What time is it?” The voice is raw, thick with sleep.

Time to face reality.

Oliver blinks, tries to focus: A mop of dark curls reflecting the sunlight, touching the tousled strands with a shimmer of mahogany. Milky skin. The knob of a vertebra, decorated with a small brown birthmark. Soft gray cotton. A crumpled sheet wrapping two bodies.

Okay, lets see how awkward the morning after with Elio will be… Oliver rolls over to grab his watch.

Rachel smiles at him from the nightstand. Somehow, her look seems to be both approving and reassuring.

“It's nearly ten.” Oliver croaks, not sounding much better than Elio. 

That revelation is met with a grunt before a lean hand starts to grope his body, trying to pull him close again.

As Oliver gives in and slides back into his still warm spot on the mattress behind Elio he starts to take stock: his legs hurt from dancing – but not his head. No hang-over. That’s promising!

Also, he's still wearing some clothes. A t-shirt and... yes, boxers. So he's at least somewhat decent. But is he ready to face whatever is coming?

Oliver inhales deeply, counts backwards from ten, releases his probably sour morning breath and hopes for the best.

“Hey, good morning.” He kisses that protruding vertebrae he's been staring at, pressing his nose into the sweaty curls on Elio's nape while his left hand rests low on Elio's stomach, his fingertips grazing his soft pubes until coming into contact with the spongy, already slippery head of Elio's cock.

“Uhm... yeah... good morning to you too.” Elio chuckles. The neck of the t-shirt he's wearing is too wide and Oliver gets a good look on the by now almost black bruise on Elio’s neck. He leans up and over and kisses it as well.

“Does that hurt?”

“No-o… why?”

“Cause I gave you a hickey.” Oliver has to smile.

“Did you now? As I said before, you’re possessive.” Elio grins as well.

“And you're hard again. Good.” Oliver wants to take him fully in hand but Elio wiggles out of reach.

“Sorry, I didn't... you okay?” Oliver asks, his heart jumping into his throat. Elio moving away from him is the equivalent of a bucket of ice-water emptied over his head. Maybe Elio had been way more drunk last night than he'd thought? He had given him scotch, after all. What if Elio hadn't really wanted what had happened, or regretted it now, or is appalled by Oliver biting him, or-

“I can hear you thinking, Oliver. Stop worrying. I just need to piss.” Elio is already sitting up.

“Oh... oh, sure.”

Elio stays seated.

“What?” Oliver asks.

“Uhm... where’s the bathroom?” Elio’s blushing. It's adorable.

“Shit, sorry, I didn't think. Come on.” Oliver gets up, takes Elio's arm and leads him over into the bathroom, carefully avoiding any collisions. It's unknown territory for Elio, of course he needs help and time to memorize the floorplan. “The toilet is on eleven o'clock.”

He stares as Elio's still hard cock juts out from beneath the hem of that ratty t-shirt, bouncing as Elio takes two steps over towards the porcelain bowl.

“You wanna watch?” Elio's question shocks Oliver a little– but also stirs his cock back to life. He swallows. Is this a test?

“Don't you mind?” His mouth is dry.

“Not at all. You can help me.” Elio reaches out and Oliver steps up behind him, taking his hand. A smile plays on Elio's face when he presses his cock into Oliver's palm. “Guide me.”

Oliver's fingers tighten.

But of course, nothing is coming, because Elio is rod-hard, twitching in Oliver's grip. So instead of assisting him to piss Oliver milks him dry first, feeling Elio tremble in his arms as he strokes his cock with one hand, the other planted in the middle of Elio's heaving chest to keep him upright. 

Elio twitches in his hold when Oliver adds a twist to every other upstroke. He keens when Oliver rubs the spot below the head where his cut foreskin ends.

“Oliver, I... fuck!”

Oliver feels him swell and then Elio shoots all over the violet bathroom tiles.

“Fucking hell! Shit, Oliver, jack me off... like that... yeah.”

Only afterwards can Elio empty his bladder, while Oliver still holds his cock, gently helping him to aim for the bowl, shaking him off when he's finished.

Oliver's so hard he must be poking Elio in the back with his erection.

Elio's voice is soft when he asks: “Didn't you promise to take care of me today?” He leans against Oliver, half turning in his arms, pressing his little belly against Oliver's cock.

Oliver shudders, kisses his temple, his neck, the bruise, before leading him back to bed, spreading him out on his stomach on the rumpled sheets, drinking the swell of his ass in before gently spreading his cheeks.

“Okay?” His mouth is watering already. Elio's hole looks literally good enough to eat, already fluttering a little under Oliver's stare.

“Yes.” Elio sighs.

Oliver kneads his firm buttocks for a moment before slowly lowering himself far enough to be able to kiss the tight pink pucker.

“Yes... god, yes.” Elio moans and Oliver revels in his briny taste, the rich smell of his musky sweat there. It's been so long since he's been with a man like this. And now he can't stop, he needs more, more, so he pushes Elio's right thigh up, up to open him wider. Thank god Elio is so flexible.

“Tell me when it gets too much.”

Elio just nods, frantically. The next sounds leaving his mouth, however, are just moans interspersed with pleas to “suck”, “lick me” and “there, right there” as Oliver starts to eat him out in earnest.

This is proving to be one of the best Sundays Oliver's had in a very long while.

 

\---------

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed) was once again kind enough to draw some gorgeous art for this chapter - Elio in Oliver's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Their weekend is far from over. Next you'll get Elio's PoV.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I'm sorry...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend for this to go like that. It just happened...

Fuck! Fuuuck! Fucking fuck!

Elio has come once today already, just mere minutes ago, but he's hard as hell again, rutting against the mattress while Oliver's tongue plays with his ass, gently licking him all over before the wet tip presses inside.

Jeeesussss... godgodgod!

He's never done it like this before. If he'd known how good it felt this would have become one his favorite activities. In theory, he'd been aware this was an option but he had no idea what it would be like.... getting licked _there_. It's so hot. Wonderful. Marvelous. Sublime.

He's drifting on a wave of pleasure. His whole body tingles, swells, shudders.

This is heaven. Bliss. It's warm and wet and tender and gentle but oh so filthy at the same time, the thought alone of what exactly Oliver is doing turning Elio on so much that he dribbles onto the sheets from both mouth and cock.

As Oliver pushes in deeper and deeper, the pad of his thumb simultaneously massaging Elio just below his entrance, he literally howls, his hips bucking, meeting Oliver's sloppy thrusts.

He wants more but he also wants this to never end.

Their making out last night had been a relief, as if taking the lid off a boiling pot, eventually allowing their physical needs to spill over. The handjob did help sooth the tension between them that had steadily built over the past few weeks, but hadn't been enough to extinguish Elio's burning need. Instead, it sparked something new, something different than mere lust. 

This feeling is still fragile and hazy, and yet the trust they’ve developed, the truths they’ve shared could offer the chance for them to be something more than two bodies fusing in ecstasy.

Is Oliver what Elio has been searching for since that fateful night six years ago? Someone who knows him, who gets him, without shying away from the trials and tribulations a relationship with him might bring? And is Elio in return ready for such a commitment?

But it’s also possible it’s just his hormones firing off, deluding him to believe that this is more than just carnal desire. What does he know, he’s just nineteen? And, frankly, he didn't have sex this good in quite a while, so no wonder it throws him for a loop. Oliver is both passionate and considerate, allowing Elio to trust, to let go and fall.

The boys he'd had in Italy had been... nice. Mostly. Young. Inexperienced but open to try new things. Unskilled and awkward. And so horny. Like himself. Not very adept, but eager. Some had too long fingernails, some had used too much tongue for kissing, some had just been a little clumsy. And some had been assholes he wants to forget.

Marcus, on the other hand, had been experienced, dexterous, sultry – still, their love-making had lacked something. Maybe Elio had sensed deep down all along that it was a lie? Whatever, he'd been missing this special connection he thinks he has with Oliver.

Oliver, who's actually doing what no one has ever done to him before, eating him out with gusto, his tongue buried deep inside Elio's ass, answering his moans exactly how he wants, going faster if Elio needs it, and pulls back when it gets too much.

Compared to Oliver, Marcus had been a selfish lover. He'd never done anything just to pleasure Elio. Whatever they'd tried – or what he'd told Elio to do – had been in chase of his own fulfillment. He'd never even blown Elio, claiming giving head was _‘a bottom thing’_. He'd just taken, taken, taken...

And still, Elio had felt hurt and devastated when it had been over.

But now, with Oliver, it's different. Oliver is patient. He gives freely. Time. Pleasure. Security. He seems all in, focused, determined to make this good not just for himself but for Elio as well. In fact, it's so good Elio doesn't know if he should cry or scream or beg for more.

So he does it all at the same time.

Though he sincerely hopes that this is just foreplay. Because he wants Oliver's cock... no, he needs Oliver's cock. Inside him. He wants it done and over with. Because that's what this is all about, right, always? He needs to know if there is more, or if whatever he thinks they have will fade the moment they reach completion. 

But Oliver's so big. Bigger than any men Elio ever had. He already loves Oliver's cock; thick, veined, almost the size of Elio's forearm. Just the thought of having that piece of hot, hard flesh pushing into him makes him tremble all over both with fear and excitement. That says a lot about him, doesn't it?

He gasps, grabbing a pillow with both hands to have something to hold onto as Oliver spreads him wide, pushing his leg up even further, his huge hands holding Elio down and in place. There’s the rustle of clothing when Oliver pulls back a little, presumably to get naked himself.

Yes! It’s finally happening… Elio vaguely remembers they should use condoms and lube but maybe Oliver doesn’t think it’s necessary? He’s aware that many men find a latex sheath a turn-off. Elio wouldn’t put up a fight if Oliver insisted on taking him bare. If he would just take him!

With a muffled noise, Oliver dives back between Elio’s cheeks, his velvety tongue up where Elio never expected it to go, his grip firm yet gentle as he opens him before spitting inside him once, twice... Yes, god, yes, do it, fuck me, please… 

When a single finger easily breaches him it's almost enough for Elio to come on the spot.

“Hnggggh... stop. Stop!” He cries out, getting up on all fours to pinch the base of his cock, his hips stuttering but only meeting air as Oliver’s finger slips out. He's so wet his thumb and forefinger slide along his shaft and he has to concentrate hard to succeed in staving off his pending orgasm.

God, that was close.

He hears Oliver curse, hissing in what sounds like pain. Did he kick him?

“Sorry, sorry...” Elio pants, turning, reaching out until he makes contact with Oliver's skin, damp with perspiration.

“What?” Oliver asks, sounding mildly confused. “You okay?”

“Nothing... I just... I almost came. And I don't want to, not yet, I mean...” His voice fails him as he sucks in oxygen to clear his swimming head.

Oliver's arms are suddenly all around him, wrapping him up, his nimble fingers kneading Elio’s back where the t-shirt clings to his skin until he relaxes a little.

“Hey, calm down. Have you been crying?”

Elio doesn't know. It doesn't matter. When he brings a hand to his face to check his cheeks are wet. Could be sweat.

“Ugh, fuck...” It comes out more as a sigh than a curse.

“Was it too much? Didn't you like it?” Now Oliver sounds positively worried. Great! Elio kicks himself inwardly. He needs to stop acting like a debutante.

“No! No, of course not...” He vehemently shakes his head while his hands search for Oliver's face. When he feels his stubbly cheeks between his palms he leans up and in and kisses him, open-mouthed, his tongue finding Oliver’s who tries to pull back but Elio's grip tightens.

“You know where my mouth has just been...” Oliver mumbles against Elio's lips. 

He couldn't care less.

“So what?” Elio dives back in, licking, sucking, climbing up Oliver's body as if he's a tree. He needs to feel him, his skin, his warmth, his sweat; Oliver's the only solid thing in Elio's dark universe right now as he fears to turn into stardust, to explode into a million tiny fragments. Cosmic fragments. Only Oliver can save Elio from dissolving into nothingness.

“I want you, now.” Elio impatiently squirms in Oliver's embrace, his sensitive cock brushing Oliver's abdomen as one greedy hand sneaks between his furry thighs in search of Oliver's cock... only, instead of the massive boner he expected he's met with an almost flaccid dick.

“Don't you want me too?” This is not good, not good at all. Why isn’t Oliver enjoying this? Did he do something wrong? Or isn’t he sexy enough? Is it his disability? Does Oliver think him somewhat retarded, unable to give consent? Well, in that case, Elio will have to show him that he knows exactly what’s going on and where it’s going. And that he’s okay with it.

He licks his right palm and starts to stroke Oliver’s cock from base to tip, slowly. “Oliver…,” he moans, his voice thin, shaking with need and desperation.

And Oliver’s body reacts, his cock swelling in Elio’s grip, but maybe he’s too rough, for Oliver gently but surely takes his hand away.

His next words hit Elio like a cold shower. “We need to talk.” Oliver says.

“Nooo.” Elio wails, tempted to pinch Oliver really hard somewhere it truly hurts. He scoots closer, hooking his left arm around Oliver's neck. “I'm done talking. Just fuck me. I'm ready.”

“You're far from it, I'm afraid.” Oliver's tone rings with amusement. Elio wants to hit him. First he’s driving him to the edge and now Oliver is playing hard to get!?

“Don't you dare get smug on me, you patronizing bastard.” Elio hisses. The arrogance of this man! “Yeah, I understand, your dick is in a league of its own, but don't-”

“Shut up.” Oliver says softly. There's no heat in his tone, just kindness. He doesn't pull back either. He even kisses Elio's temple while his hands skim his back, resting just above Elio’s ass where the t-shirt has ridden up, exposing his skin. “This isn't about… It's not about sex, okay. It's about where this thing between us is going.”

“For all I know it's going straight up my ass.”

“Elio, for god's sake-”

Elio barks out a bitter, uncertain laugh, disentangling himself from Oliver, sitting back on his thighs. “You really want to get into this right now?” He can't believe it. He's so horny it feels he might explode, his balls tight against his body, his cock dripping all over Oliver's lap, most of his blood pooling between his legs and this man wants to have a proper conversation? “How about we fuck first and talk about it afterwards?”

“Okay, we _really_ have to talk.” It might have been fun and games up until now but all of a sudden Oliver sounds gravely serious.

“Talk, talk, talk!” Elio's voice hitches. He can't help it. “I'm fucking done talking. If you don't want to have me I can just go.” Because there's only one thing guys want to tell you when they abort fucking. Marcus had been evasive like this in the end and now Elio knows why. Because he'd overstayed his welcome, became too demanding, clingy. He won't give Oliver a chance to hurt him like this again. Better leave now and be done with him.

So he pushes Oliver, hard, who takes the cue and releases Elio. His hands move to determine his position on the bed and when he finds the edge of the mattress he slides off, getting to his feet before crouching down. Is he crying again as he crawls over the carpet, searching for his clothes? If so, it's because this is fucking humiliating – but not as humiliating as being told off by some guy who seems unable to make up his mind. One moment he's driving Elio mad, the next he chickens out. Thank you very much, Elio's had enough of this! Waiting, talking, taking it slow, bla bla bla. Who does Oliver think he is, anyway? A sad middle aged art professor, a widower who should be grateful that he can still get some!

When Elio clutches what feels like silk he quickly yanks the cotton t-shirt Oliver borrowed him over his head and pulls his own shirt on, hoping it's not inside out.  
“Elio...” Now Oliver sounds... alarmed? Whatever, fuck all this!

“No. Just let me-” He scoots backwards on his bare ass until he hits a wall.

“Elio!” Oliver's hand wraps around his ankle. Elio kicks but Oliver doesn't let go.

“Fuck, where's my jeans? This is so... ah, god!” He's yelling, raking his fingers though his curls, pulling hard. He feels trapped between a rock and a hard place as the sheer frustration of it all crashes over him like an ice-cold wave of despair, making it difficult to breathe.

“Elio.” It sounds much softer suddenly. The grip around his leg is gone and then Oliver untangles Elio's fingers from his hair. “Elio.” Oliver kisses his palm before letting go of his hand. 

Elio inhales deeply, Oliver’s scent enveloping him, calming him down a little. After a moment he’s able to ask: “Can you give my jeans, please?”

A pile of denim drops into his naked lap.

“Get dressed. I make breakfast. Then we talk, okay?”

Elio shrugs, covering himself with his trousers. “Or I could just... go, you know.” He whispers.

Oliver leans close again, strokes his cheek, the pads of his thumbs brushing beneath Elio's eyes. But he keeps his distance when he says: “I'd rather you stayed.”

“Okay.” Elio nods, allowing himself to lean into the touch for just one second.

“The kitchen is to your right. The bedroom door is on three o'clock. It's about four steps away, then another seven through the living room, then turn right.”

He hears Oliver leave, his knees cracking as he gets up. After a moment, somewhere in the apartment cupboards are opened and closed before a pan rattles on a stove.

Elio takes his time to put on his jeans, carefully zipping up his fly to avoid his by now limp cock getting caught in its teeth – his boxers seem to have vanished during the night – but not bothering to button up his shirt. Give Oliver something to look at so he knows what he's missing.

When he's dressed he sits on the edge of the bed for some time, collecting himself, trying to brace for the rejection that is surely coming – even wrapped as amicable as possible, knowing Oliver. Of course he's the kind of guy who makes you breakfast to soften the blow.

But what else did he expect than a gentle let-down? Oliver has been through so much – he doesn't need someone like Elio in his life who might become just another liability. He had suffered his fair share of illness. Now he surely wants someone healthy. Not a cripple.

That connection he'd felt earlier was probably just built on pheromones and shared suffering. Oliver deserves something better, something more positive. Someone who can take care of him for a change. Not that Elio is in need of a carer... but apparently many men perceive him as deficient and dependent. He'd thought Oliver might be different but maybe only in so far that he's politer than his predecessors.

Okay, man up! Don't make this worse than it already is by getting melodramatic.

Elio brings his fists down on his thighs, hard, to experience physical pain instead of emotional, before getting up to feel his way over into the kitchen. Hopefully, he will avoid to run into something. This morning has already been embarrassing enough. 

Oliver meets him in the living room. Has he been waiting here for him? To get it over with faster? But Elio can smell breakfast – the yeasty aroma of toast, something fried in olive oil – and the homely atmosphere doesn’t correspond with a jerk trying to quickly get rid of a one-night stand.

“Just two more steps ahead, there's the dining table. I've already set it.”

When Elio's hands make contact with the back of a wooden chair he pulls it out, lowering himself slowly. He finds a fork, a knife and a plate in front of him.

“Scrambled eggs on ten o'clock, buttered toast on two. I didn't know if you take jam or-”

“Actually, I like Nutella.” It slips out before he can think. God, he sounds like a child! He can hear Oliver laugh as he sits down as well, somewhere to his right.

“Of course. See, it's good to talk to get to know each other.” Cutlery scrapes over china. “I'm sorry I can't provide Nutella. There's at least a pot of coffee to your left, on eleven o'clock... yes, there.”

Elio skeptically takes a sip. But, of course, Oliver's coffee tastes so good that it makes him involuntary sigh with pleasure. It's strong but not bitter, hitting Elio's dazed synapses, waking him up. He forces himself to try the eggs and they are tasty as well, neither slimy nor dry but spicy and fluffy. The toast is rye bread, the butter salted. Oliver put some effort into this.

Only when his fork scratches over his apparently empty plate does Elio realize he ate it all. Fuck! His diet...

“I see you’re finished. So, talk.” Oliver's voice distracts him from contemplating his calorie intake. He sounds a little uneasy but Elio won't help him. Oliver had wanted this conversation so he has to start it. “I'm not... I'm not someone who fucks around, Elio. I tried but... It basically makes me feel like shit. So, if this... thing... between us is going anywhere I... need to know what it means to you?”

Elio almost inhales the rest of his coffee, making him cough and splutter. What is Oliver talking about? Maybe he doesn't want to get rid of him after all?

Elio feels literally blindsided. As he had anticipated getting dumped the alternative seems now equally unsettling. Can't they just have a bit of fun? Why does whatever they have has to be taken so serious, examined, labeled?

He bites his lip, plays with his knife and fork. He can feel Oliver's tension vibrating in the air as he waits for an answer. What does he want to hear? How much is Elio expected to expose of himself? He’s navigating without a compass in these muddied waters and he doesn’t like it one bit. What he needs is more time. 

So when Elio eventually speaks his voice sounds small as he answers with a question in return: “What do you mean? What do you want me to say to this?”

“The truth? What is this to you? What am I to you?” Is that... meekness in his tone? Or exasperation?

Whatever… Elio shakes his head. This is too sudden, too confusing. He can't do this right now. “Are you really trying to make me confess my feelings for you? What about you? What is this to you? You took me home, you're-” older, my boss, a widower, much more experienced... he can't bring himself to say any of this “-being unfair.” He finishes rather lamely.

Oliver is quiet for far too long. Elio knows this doesn’t bode well. Okay, here it comes... _'Let's be friends'_ probably. _'I like you but it's not enough'_ or _'I'm still not over my dead wife, I know you understand'_. He prepares himself for the blow, grabbing the edge of the table for support. _‘Just get up and leave,’_ he thinks. But he stays put, his masochistic streak winning over self-preservation.

“Oliver?”

“Yeah...”

Nothing more. No explanation. Just silence.

Fuck! This has all been a mistake. Elio’s hands are sweaty, his face feels hot and his stomach grumbles, probably preparing to expel the food it just received. Nausea creeps up Elio’s esophagus. How did it all deteriorate so quickly?

“I'm falling in love with you.” Oliver's low but firm words upset Elio more than if he'd just been told to get packing.

“What?!” Elio pushes his chair back. He wants to run but has no idea where to.

“I think I'm falling in love with you.” Oliver repeats, louder this time.

“You... you...“ Elio stutters. It's not often that he's speechless but Oliver succeeds in rendering him dumb. Because what is this supposed to mean now? What does Oliver want from him? How does he think this would work? Elio’s nineteen, for god's sake. Love is too big a word to throw in his face after just one proper date. It doesn't make him happy or fills him with joy. On the contrary, it frightens the shit out of him. He's not ready for this. “Just give me my boots and my jacket and then I'm out of here.” He finally says.

But Oliver doesn't move. Instead, his hand grasps Elio's and there's nothing he can do about it. “Elio-”

“I mean it. Please, just... give me my clothes.” Where's his phone? Siri can tell him the way to the next subway station. Or he could call Marzia. She might be pissed about her ruined Sunday morning but he's sure she would come and get him...

He just has to get out of here before this escalates even more.

“Oliver? Please? I want to go.”

Oliver releases his hand, clears his throat. “Okay. Sure.” He sounds flat, as if his voice is coming from far away. “Just... sorry.”

Elio waits, his back ramrod straight. But there's nothing forthcoming. As he hears Oliver's chair scraping over the floor he starts to button up his shirt.

The seconds stretch as he waits for Oliver's return. His face is burning, his yaw clenched. He just hopes Oliver will let him go without any more confessions. Or worse. Because Elio is easy prey. But surely Oliver wouldn't-

“Here. No idea where your socks and underwear are, I'm afraid.” Oliver is close, setting his boots down next to Elio's chair. But then he steps back without touching him.

When Elio's finished lacing his Doc Martens Oliver places his leather jacket over the back of his chair and Elio shrugs it on, standing up.

The silence is deafening until Oliver says: “The next subway station is 1st Avenue.” Elio is already searching the pockets of his jacket, fumbling for his phone. This time, Oliver doesn't offer to call him a taxi.

Elio pulls his cane out from another pocket, unfolding it. God, this is truly a walk of shame as he tries to find a way out of Oliver's apartment and presumably his life. The door must be somewhere ahead of him, he thinks, as the cane leaves the carpet and scrapes over wooden flooring. The bedroom should be behind him so...

Finally, the cane makes contact with the solid entrance door. Elio feels for bolts, turns them, puts his fingers on the knob. He has no idea where Oliver is. Anyway, he says over his shoulder: “If you find my other clothes you can give them to me on Tuesday.”

Then he leaves, not bothering to close the door. Is Oliver watching his retreat? Or has he turned away? And where's this fucking lift?

He takes his first deep breath when he's located the elevator. As he presses the button and waits he could swear Oliver's gaze drills a hole into the back of his head. Luckily, soon there's the characteristic ping before Elio hears metal doors sliding open.

When he steps in a female voice asks: “Oh, hello, aren't you the young _friend_ of Professor Weizmann?”

The way she says the word 'friend' makes it sound like something rather improper. 

This might be one of the worst Sundays of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, there's the happy end tag. They'll meet again on Tuesday.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for last chapter's drama - but they both needed time to take a step back. They were moving way too fast, considering all the things they should work through before deciding on a relationship.  
> But somehow, they are trapped in a pattern of drama, misunderstandings, silence and haste and need someone to help them break it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's once again art by Chalamazed at the end of this chapter. Follow them on twitter:
> 
> https://twitter.com/chalamazed

How is it possible to go from feeling high because you're making love with the most precious boy to wanting to throw yourself off a tall building in the space of an hour?

Just sixty minutes ago, Oliver had been caressing Elio in his bed – now he's ripping the sheets off the mattress, grinding his teeth together in an increasingly difficult effort not to scream his frustration out into the world.

Instead, Oliver balls up the bed-linen and throws them into the corner – where the cotton lands with a very unsatisfactory soft thud.

It doesn't dampen his urge to kick something over or punch a wall...

_‘And what good would that do, exactly?’_ He hears Rachel’s voice in his head, amused, kind, patient.

Of course, she’s right. Taking it out on the furniture won’t undo what happened. What he said.

Somewhat deflated, Oliver sinks down onto the stripped bed, takes Rachel's photo in both hands and asks her: “Why am I like this?”

He'd just wanted to do everything right. Honestly talk about his feelings, conveying to Elio that he has serious intentions, making sure that he wasn't taking advantage by just casually hooking up. He didn't want to assume anything, instead asked for consent to find out where they both stand.

Well, apparently, they are not only not on the same page but they might even have been reading an entirely different book for all Oliver knows.

Because to him, Elio wasn't just a one-night stand. Oliver truly wants a relationship.

Only, Elio doesn’t.

Oliver had been so afraid of exploiting Elio that it never occurred to him that Elio might not be looking for something serious.

Elio even had told him on their very first evening: that he doesn’t believe in love and romance – but Oliver hadn't listened, had brushed it off as youthful bragging, as pseudo-existentialist drivel not to be taken serious. As something he had the power to change if he only loved Elio hard enough. Then Elio had to see that love could conquer all.

But, apparently, Elio had meant what he'd said. And can Oliver really blame him for feeling this world-weary, even cynical, regarding what he’s been through at his young age?

Ha, and there it is, the ugly truth: Oliver had thought Elio too fragile to not need him; had expected him to be thankful for the affection Oliver feels for him, that he would eagerly lap up the compliments, thrive under the warmth of Oliver’s love.

But Elio doesn't need Oliver and maybe not even wants him anymore.

Oh, he'd been such a fool.

Because Elio knows exactly what he wants – and Oliver’s love and commitment isn't on that list.

All Elio had been looking for was a bit of fun.

It hurt.

It hurt that he'd been so stupid as to think that Elio would want to engage in a relationship with someone like him: a widower at 26 who had buried his dream of becoming a painter along with the woman he'd loved, having lost all lightness, scarred beyond recognition.

Why would someone like Elio – so full of life and light despite the cruel fate that robbed him of his eyesight – tie himself to someone like Oliver?

Add to this Oliver’s internalized fear of once again losing someone he loved, of wasting precious time, and it becomes clear that the accident had just been waiting to happen. Oliver had overreacted and blurted out a premature love confession, putting immense pressure on Elio. Who’s, after all, despite his strength, determination, willpower and intelligence, just a 19 year old boy trying to find his footing in life.

Why, oh why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?

Oliver holds the reason for his behavior in his hands. Because they only had three years together. Afterwards he'd sworn never to stall or hesitate again should he get a second chance.

But, fuck, you don't tell a 19-year old boy who works for you that you’re falling in love with him after making out for the first time! What had he thought would happen? Elio telling him he felt the same, then the two of them riding off into the sunset?

God, he's such a fuck-up!

He stares at his phone for the next hour, his thumb hovering over the call button, composing apology after apology in his head until tears blind his vision and he fully gives in to self-pity, curling up on the naked bed and sobbing like a lovesick teenager.

To take his mind off things (and stay away from the Scotch) he laces up his sneakers around midday and goes for a run, only returning to his apartment when his lungs burn and his legs threaten to give out. Back home, he clears the table, scraping his uneaten breakfast into the bin. The rest of the day he tries… he really does. But around eight in the evening he succumbs. Because he’s weak and miserable and who cares if he adds another mistake to the pile of shit he accumulated today?

So he grabs the almost full bottle of Scotch, only forced to stop when it's empty way too soon.

The next day, he looks like shit and feels even worse, which doesn't prevent repetition.

He's both surprised and relieved when Elio turns up on Tuesday. He undresses, poses, and leaves again. Oliver doesn't dare to talk to him, not even to offer him his by now obligatory coffee. _'Give him space!'_ He reminds himself. _'At least he's still coming here. Don't freak him out any more.'_ \- _'Yeah, he comes here because it's his job. It not about you. It's very likely in spite of you.'_

He had found Elio's underwear and socks, even washed them and put them in a bag that he placed onto the sofa in the storeroom; it's gone when he looks for it after class.

Oliver has a wager going with himself. If Elio turns up he doesn't drink that evening.

So he abstains on Thursday again.

Elio looks tired that night, paler than usual. He even limps a little as he gets onto the podium but doesn't complain when he takes the pose Oliver demands, standing half turned with his arms raised so the students can study the muscles in his back and shoulders. Okay, and his ass.

They still don't speak to each other. Elio is gone before the last students have finished gathering up their things. Oliver watches as a red-haired girl that usually sits at the front and has talked to Elio once holds the door open for him, saying something as he walks past that makes him smile.

The ache that had weakened to a dull, persistent numbness flares up again, sharp and hot, twisting his guts and blurring his vision. He has to ask the student he's been talking to to repeat his question.

The weekend stretches into infinity. Oliver spends it running and drinking, feeling more and more miserable until he pours all liquor he still has in his apartment down the drain on Sunday evening before heading over to Cooper Union, locking himself in his studio, setting up a canvas.

He decides on a drawing of Elio standing with his head thrown back, his arms stretched out into the air as if reaching for something. He paints until the sun rises, feeling better despite the exhaustion of a sleepless night.

The next Tuesday, he finishes half an hour early and sends the students to explore the building to do some perspective exercise. They file out while Elio is still sitting on the small stage, frowning at the assignment before slowly getting up.

Oliver waits outside the storage room until Elio got dressed. It’s like a déjà vu of their last episode of silence. When the door opens he clears his throat to announce his presence.

“Elio, a word, please.”

He tilts his head, unfolds his cane, and just stands there, still frowning. He looks somewhat gaunt, Oliver realizes, with dark circles under his eyes.

“I want to apologize-” Oliver begins.

“Please, Oliver, I don't think this is a very good idea-” He sounds tired.

“Elio, just listen, I have to talk to you...”

“Talk, talk, talk.” Elio sing-songs. “That's all you have to offer, isn't it? Endless talk.”

Oliver sighs as he tries to stay calm and not to rise to Elio's dismissive provocation. Because he of all people should know how precious it is to be able to just talk to each other. “Yes, talk. Like grown-ups do. About my dead wife, for example. About my intentions. About your expectations, your plans. You're what, nineteen? I'm twenty-six. You're a student, I'm a professor. We need to talk to make sure-.”

“You should have thought about that before taking me to your bed and putting your tongue-”

“Yeah, I know!” Oliver cuts him off, the frustration of the past week spilling over. Elio takes a step back as if a little frightened by his outburst, using his cane to put some distance between them.

“Oliver, listen. I don't want to fight.” He sounds annoyed, exasperated. How can he be so indifferent when Oliver is suffering like a dog?

“Elio, I know I've done it all wrong. I just want to tell you I'm sorry.”

“What for?” Elio's voice is suddenly sharp. So Oliver’s words reached him after all. “What are you sorry for, Professor Weizmann? Do you regret what happened?”

“Of course I regret what happened. I... we... God, I should never have... it wasn't... I don’t know-” He shakes his head in defeat, feeling lost.

Elio’s beautiful face darkens before morphing into outright cruel blankness. It hurts Oliver more than if he’d spat insults at him. “You know what?” Elio starts to walk past him, using his cane to fend him off. “Talk to me when you know what you want. Or, on second thoughts, just don't talk to me at all, Professor Weizmann. Lets just keep our association professional.”

“Elio, don't let it end like this...” Oliver knows he's begging by now.

“It? There's no _it_.” Elio keeps walking towards the door. “I've no idea what you thought was going on but I told you from the start that I wasn't looking for... anything. Just stop it. No need to apologize anymore. It’s getting pathetic. I won't bother you again.”

The door falls shut behind him.

Oliver is left poleaxed, thunderstruck. It takes him a while before he’s able to move again. When he trusts his legs to carry him, he walks over into his studio and meticulously cuts up the painting of Elio's naked body into tiny little shreds, scooping them up and throwing them in the bin afterwards. It's the perfect allegory for his heart right now, ripped into a thousand pieces before carelessly discarded.

Only four weeks left. Then the semester will be over. He can do this.

The urge to drown his sorrow in drink is almost unbearable by this point, even as he’s aware that it wouldn’t make anything better but on the contrary make things worse. Oliver contemplates calling the therapist he saw after his return from London. She'd been good. Honest, calling him out, kicking his ass to quit drinking and get his life back together. But what should he tell her now? That he met a boy too young to understand how fragile a human heart can be? How could she help him deal with the cruelty of youth?

Fuck him! Just fuck him! How can this boy have such power over him that he’s on the verge of throwing away everything he’d worked so hard for to get back?

Oliver decides on a whim that he needs to be among people this evening, fearing what the silence of his empty apartment could do to him. It's still early, so he heads over to the village, walking into the first gay bar he comes across after leaving the subway.

He hdn't done anything like this since his Uni days. But Elio called him pathetic so he has to live up to that, doesn’t he, by hooking up with a stranger. Something Elio might be doing as well right now…

He wants to remind himself how it feels, sex without emotions, touch without love, two anonymous bodies coupling in the dark. No strings attached.

Well, it feels like he remembers. It's a rather sad, sordid affair, rubbing one out with some hunk in the toilets, surrounded by the smell of booze and piss. When the guy comes he tries to kiss Oliver. That's when he pulls away, tugs his only half-hard cock back into his trousers and almost flees the bar. He's home by ten, showering for half an hour until the water turns cold.

He still has those sleeping pills prescribed to him after Rachel's death. Wash them all down with some Scotch - and that'll be the end of it.

He's glad he didn’t keep a last reserve. He's not sure he could withstand the dark urge once again. What for? Living through disappointment after disappointment?

In the end, he sits down at his easel the first time in almost ten months, takes a brush in hand and carefully starts on the background of Rachel's portrait.

The next day, there's a knock on the classroom door a few minutes after the lesson on Italian Renaissance art that Oliver teaches on Wednesdays for art history majors is over. He thinks it might be one of the students who forgot something and just shouts “Come in!”, crouching on the floor while trying to disentangle the projector cable from under the desk.

“Professor Weizmann?” It's a female voice he doesn't recognize. But when he sticks his head out from under the table he sees the dark-haired girl he remembers waiting for Elio a few weeks ago.

His heart skips a beat. Has something happened? Does she have a message for him? Good or bad news?

“Uhm, yes?” He gets up, trying to straighten his shirt. “Hello, sorry, I was...” He gestures a little helplessly at the machine on the tabletop.

There’s a small smile on the girls face. “Yeah, I'm sorry, too. For ambushing you like this. I don't know if you recall our last encounter?”

“You came to meet Elio after class.” He says quickly. Her smile broadens, exposing a gap between her front teeth that makes her look much younger than she probably is.

“Yes. I don't know if he introduced us properly. Possibly not, knowing him. I'm Marzia. I'm... a friend.” She walks up to him and stretches out her hand. Oliver thinks he remembers Elio telling him that he 'd tried to kiss a girl named Marzia on New Year's Eve...

“Nice to meet you.” Oliver says, reflexively shaking her hand. Her grip is strong. “So, is this about Elio?” He schools his voice into an indifferent tone. What does she want from him? Why did she come?

“Uhm, sorry... no.” Is she blushing? Oliver for sure is. “It's actually about me.” She's playing with the hem of her scarf, twisting it round and round her long, elegant finger. Oliver waits. “It's just... I mean, when Elio told me he knew you I thought... I've been drawing all my life, you know? And now I'm considering trying to get into art school. It's always been my dream...” Oliver suddenly knows where this is going, sighing inwardly. A doctor gets asked about illnesses and treatments as soon as he reveals his profession and an art professor gets asked: “So, I was wondering, would you look over my portfolio, tell me if it's any good? Please?”

She looks a little sheepishly, as if she's aware that she’s asking a huge favor from a virtual stranger. Oliver wants to turn her down but doesn’t have the heart. Usually, he’s presented with embarrassingly talent-free sketches trying to imitate much better artists and really wishes to spare them both the awkwardness. But she's a friend of Elio... maybe more than a friend. But at least she's a connection.

“I would be so grateful for a valid opinion, Professor Weizmann. But if you don’t have the time-”

“Do you have it with you?” Oliver asks, defeated. Whom is he kidding? He was bound to say yes to anything she requested from the moment she set foot into the classroom.

“Oh, no, I wouldn't spring it on you like that... but maybe we could meet and I could show you? Tomorrow?”

She looks at him, her eyes eager and full of innocent excitement. And it's not that he has anything better to do lately after class on Thursday.

“I could meet you a little after eight tomorrow evening. You can come over to my studio here-”

“Uh, can we meet somewhere else, please? I don't want Elio to know, you see... and if he encounters me here he would go ballistic... I don't want him to think I'm exploiting his connections, you know.” There's something in her tone that makes Oliver's ears prick up. Has Elio been talking about him, about them? How much does this girl know?

“How is he, Elio?” He asks carefully.

“Oh, I thought you just saw him yesterday? He's working on his performance for the end of year exams in a few weeks. He's... very determined.” She screws up her face as if she's not entirely happy with that. “Are you coming, by the way? The performance is open to the public. It's some kind of student's gala at the Lincoln Center.”

“I... don't know. Probably not. Elio and I... he's just working for me, you know.” His face starts to heat so he turns away, resuming to fumble with the cable.

“Oh, of course... I just thought, from an aesthetic point of view, that's all. I assumed you were interested in dance because you specifically advertised for a dancer as a model.”

They are getting onto thin ice here. Oliver makes a point of looking at his watch. “Anyway, we could meet at a bar around the corner, tomorrow. Just after eight. It's called McSorley's Old Ale House.” He says quickly to stir the conversation to safer ground.

“Okay, I'll find it. Great. Thanks. Thanks so much” She grabs his hand again with both of her own. “I'll be there on time.” She's gone before Oliver can say anything else. He thinks he sees her punch the air before the door falls shut and has to smile.

Elio is even cooler towards him the next evening, barely greeting him. Oliver tells him to just sit with his back to class so they can try to draw his spine and continue to work on his shoulders. This pose also prevents Oliver from pining at his closed-off face like a lovesick fool.

He leaves before Elio has gotten dressed, eager to avoid him after their last exchange, and not ready to watch him walk away without a word.

Therefore, Oliver arrives at the bar just ten past eight. He spots Marzia sitting in a booth at the back, an already half empty glass of white wine in front of her, speaking into her phone. She ends the call when she sees Oliver approach, saying: “Yeah, great, some people from class had the idea and I thought it could be fun. Bye.”

She pockets her phone and rises to her feet.

“Hi, Professor Weizmann! Thank you again for coming.” Oliver goes for a handshake while Marzia goes for a hug and they end up in a cringy in-between movement.

“I get myself a drink, then we can go over your stuff, okay?” Oliver hurries to say as he entangles himself.

“Sure, there's no rush.”

“You want anything?” Oliver gestures towards her glass.

“Oh no, I'm fine.” She smiles, tugging a dark curl behind her ear. It reminds Oliver of Elio and he has to swallow before quickly turning and making for the bar. They've picked the busiest time of the evening to meet so it takes him some time to place his order. When he eventually returns to their table with a glass of coke in hand Marzia looks up at him, grinning, biting her lip.

He takes a seat opposite her with his back to the room. “Cheers.” They clink glasses. “So, where's your stuff? I didn't even ask... they are drawings, right? Graphite? Ink? Or watercolors?”

“Uhm, you don't beat around the bush, do you?” Marzia asks, lowering her voice, her fingers rubbing the stem of her wineglass. Is she trying to flirt with him? Please, no, he couldn’t handle that. “Why don't you tell me a bit about the things you do... at college, Professor?”

“Sorry... I wasn't aware that this was a social call...” Oliver feels his neck start to prickle. All his alarm bells are going off. What's going on here?

Marzia's grin only widens as she glances over his shoulder towards the bar's entrance.

“I'm sorry, too.” She reaches for his hand and gently pads it. “But don't worry, there is no portfolio. I'm not going to bore you much longer...”

“What?” Oliver is getting more and more confused.

But Marzia is already pushing her chair back, standing up, and shrugging on her jacket.

When she bends down to him he can smell her sweet perfume but her whispered words hit him like a punch to the gut: “You’re an idiot, Oliver Weizmann. Elio's been a fucking menace over the past couple weeks. You need to sort that.” And with that, she starts to leave, making her way over to the bar's entrance.

When Oliver turns to look after her, feeling rather dumbstruck, he nearly falls off his chair. Because Marzia has grabbed a rose-cheeked Elio by the arm and is dragging him over to his table. He's frowning and laughing at the same time, having trouble to make his way through the crowd with his large gym bag slung over his shoulder.

They stop next to the booth. When Oliver tries to get up, Marzia unceremoniously grabs his shoulder with her free hand, firmly pushing him back down again.

“Elio, have a seat.” She chimes and Elio's frown deepens as he feels for a chair. Oliver knows he should say something but he can't. His mouth has gone dry and it doesn't even occur to him that he could just take a sip of his coke. Instead, he's transfixed, transported back in time to his and Elio's very first evening. All he can do is stare.

“Where's everyone else?” Elio asks.

Marzia looks outright mischievous by now.

“I'm sorry, but you're an idiot, too, Elio Perlman. Now, please, for the love of god, talk to each other.” Elio looks both worried and bewildered. Marzia punches first his shoulder, then Oliver's, and then walks off, vanishing between the patrons.

“Elio.” Is all Oliver can say. “I had no idea-”

Elio literally jumps in his seat at hearing his voice. “Fuck’s sake! What…? God, she's impossible. Marzia, I hate you!” A few heads turn as Elio raises his voice before trying to get up from his chair but the strap of his gym bag gets tangled up on the armrest so he's somewhat trapped.

“Fuck!” He seethes again, fumbling with his huge bag, suddenly looking very small, tired, and on the verge of crying.

“Elio, please, let me help you.” Oliver reaches over, pulling the bag free. “I think Marzia just wanted to help, too. In her own way.”

Elio doesn't move, just sits there, slumped forward, mumbling: “I didn’t ask for help.” At least he’s not trying to flee any longer.

Oliver has to suppress the impulse to ruffle his hair. He seems so fragile right now Oliver fears he could break him with a single touch.

“God, we're a true mess, aren't we?” He says after a moment.

That makes Elio smile. “I miss our evenings. The coffee. The talk.” His smile turns a little wistful.

“Me too.”

“Could we, maybe, just go back there.” His long index finger is drawing perfect circles on the tabletop.

“Would you like to do that?” Oliver is holding his breath.

“Yes and no.”

“Can you just stop being cryptic?”

That makes Elio laugh out loud, his breezy, genuine laugh.

“I would very much like to go back there but I don't think I can. Because, you know, I really enjoyed... the other stuff, too.” The circles become larger until Elio's finger hits the back of Oliver's hand. Neither of them pulls away. “And I'm not sure I can forget what you said. Even as you now regret the date and... the sex.” All cockiness is gone. He simply looks miserable.

“What? Elio, I don't regret neither our date nor the sex... What I do regret is steamrollering you with my love confession. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“At least you were honest.” Elio's voice is low as he talks to the table, his curls hiding his face. “I'm so used to keeping my distance that I couldn't handle how good it all felt with you. How much I liked it. I got afraid instead and freaked out and acted like a child. God, I must have annoyed the hell out of Marzia and Chiara over the past week... whining on and on.”

“You're just nineteen. It's totally okay if you just want to have some fun.” Oliver hurries to assure him.

Elio raises his head and opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but nothing’s forthcoming. In the end Oliver asks: “Should I get you a drink, maybe?”

Elio sighs, shakes his head, rakes a hand through his curls. “Can we just go somewhere quieter? To talk. Have a coffee. This is all a bit much.”

Oliver has an idea. “I never showed you my studio, did I?”

 

\-------

Chalamazed did the picture Oliver painted of Elio. It's such a shame he cut it up.

I give the ugly twitter link because they are nsfw and the links frequently break on here: https://twitter.com/chalamazed 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. I love Marzia!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Oliver's studio...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this might be a tiny little bit inspired by that one scene from Skam France. I hope you don't mind.
> 
> Also, I thought about writing about those 2 weeks of silence from Elio's point of view but that would just have been miserable. So there's just a short flashback to a talk between him and Marzia before we move on to brighter realms.

Oliver's studio smells of oil paint, turpentine, wood, glue, dust, coffee, cigarettes and Scotch; it smells of Oliver.

Elio hesitates. The room seems large but he fears dangers lurking everywhere in form of chairs, tables, pots of paint, canvasses, buckets, brushes... the clutter a painter might need and accumulate in such a space.

It's a minefield.

Like this whole evening could turn into. He reminds himself to have a stern talk with Marzia. What is this woman thinking, meddling with his affairs? It's true, he's been cranky and miserable the last two weeks – but she had no right to intervene like this and set him up with Oliver.

On the other hand, he might need to buy her another bouquet of flowers.

Oliver is next to him, apparently sensing his difficulties. “Uhm... may I guide you over to a stool?”

When Elio nods Oliver gently takes his arm and walks him through the room.

“Here, sit. Put your bag down. The floor's almost clean.” He laughs a little. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Elio needs something strong right now but would rather forego alcohol.

He hears Oliver busy himself with a coffeemaker and soon smells the rich aroma of real Italian Espresso.

They both stay silent, Elio listening to Oliver's concentrated movements. He doesn’t know what to expect from their pending conversation, but he knows that the days since he left Oliver’s apartment have been… simply shit. He hasn’t slept enough and might have overdone it with the training, almost spraining his ankle, to take his mind of Oliver; of how good his touch had felt; of how much fun they’d had during their date.

He’d missed him. His voice. Talking to him. Kissing him. Being kissed by him in return…

_After eventually telling Marzia what had happened on the Sunday she sat him down and painstakingly dissected his reactions and feelings. He felt so stupid but her dry reasoning actually helped him to make some sense of why he’d fled._

_“Seriously, he shouldn’t have dropped the love bomb like that. That’s a bit much. But your exit equally lacked sensitivity.”_

_“I know! I just ran away. I couldn’t handle it…”_

_“Understandable, after that cheating asshole Marcus.”_

_“You think so?”_

_“Of course, Elio.” She touched his knee, squeezed his leg. “Does Oliver know about him?”_

_“I might have dropped a hint...”_

_“So he doesn't know your rather complicated history with older, married men?”_

_"History with older, married men... it was one guy, Marzia."_

_"Who treated you like a sl-"_

_"Thank you for reminding me."_

_"Elio." She sighed. "Maybe you just don't know how decent guys behave? Like, they tell you what they feel... you're worth to be loved, you know?"_

_Elio shook his head. "Marzia, please, don't..."_

_"Elio! Stop doing that. What's your problem? He loves you! True, it might come as a bit of a shock at first but, hey... he LOVES you."_

_"No, Marzia-"_

_"He's a decent bloke. Intelligent. Single. He looks gorgeous. He took you on a lovely date. And now he's falling in love with you. Give him a chance."_

_"But I don't know how!" Elio malmost shouted, balling his hands into fists._

_Marzia was silent for a moment before asking: “Has he tried to make contact?”_

_“No-o.”_

_“Did he try and talk to you during your modelling sessions?”_

_“Ye-es…”_

_“And?”_

_“I called him pathetic.” Elio mumbled, suddenly mortified._

_“Great, Elio. And so mature-“_

_“He told me he regretted what had happened between us and I flipped out!“ He said in a weak attempt to defend his lashing-out._

_“What? How? Maybe he just tried to apologize but you overreacted again?”_

_“Shit, Marzia! You aren’t helping here.”_

_So she helped in other ways…_

Elio comes back to the here and now as Oliver touches his shoulder before handing him a thick, small cup on a saucer. “Careful, it's hot.”

Elio gratefully takes the coffee, holds it under his nose and inhales.

“I started to like you when I discovered you could make decent coffee.” He smiles.

“So that's the way to your heart?”

Elio blows over the heat steaming from his cup. “Maybe...” He takes a sip. It’s strong and sweet, just as he likes it. “Definitely a promising start.” He drains his cup and Oliver quickly takes it from his hand and sets it down somewhere, the china rattling. Is his hand shaking?

“It's a bit of a mess in here... but do you want to explore some of my works?”

“Sure.” Elio is truly curious. Oliver said he's a failed painter, not good enough. Somehow, he can't quite believe that.

Oliver touches his arm again, takes his hand and helps him up. “So, this is a large triptych I've been working on until... well, other things got in the way... Whatever, it shows a street from the Bowery. We found an old colored engraving from 1807 at a flea market and I tried to pin down the same location in 1907 and 2007. It might not be the exact same spot but it's close... it's about how a place changes over time. Is it still the same after 200 years? Can it stay the same despite changing? Or can it last only by changing?” He laughs and it sounds nervous. “You want to touch it?”

“If that's okay?”

“Sure. It's a collage made of small and large copies of pictures, photos, postcards, maps of the street and its surroundings, depicting the scenery at each specific time, then painted over. I hope that gives it some sort of embossed structure, like a 3D-map maybe. It’s almost like molding the outlines from papier-mâché...”

Elio raises his hand and touches a canvas. It's huge. He can feel dips and raises, his fingers following valleys rough with paint.

“Wow.” He breathes. “This feels amazing. So vivid.”

“I started it when we moved back to New York. It was fascinating to explore it with Rachel. We went everywhere on foot, walked for hours, and it was like seeing familiar places for the first time. She wasn't shy and quickly connected with everyone we met. People really opened up to her... I hoped to finish this before... she died. But I didn't.”

Elio is still touching the painting, moving from one piece to another. “She sounds like a truly special person. I somehow wished I could have met her.”

Oliver sighs. It doesn’t sound sad but rather content, amused even. “You two would have got on like a house on fire. She would have bombarded you with questions. How you coped, how you managed to dance, about every minor detail of your daily life. From anyone else that might have seemed intrusive but you simply couldn't be angry with her because she was so genuinely interested. Totally without malice or contempt, free of prejudices. No judgement. The most open person I've ever met... I sometimes wonder why she hooked up with a stickler like me...”

“Opposites attract?” Elio can't suppress a grin.

“Thank you very much.” Suddenly, something wet hits Elio’s left cheek.

“Hey...” He raises his hand. The substance feels thick and creamy and smells of linseed. “Did you just smear my face with paint?”

“Just a little.” Oliver snickers. “Here, let me...” He's suddenly close, wiping Elio's cheek with a rough towel. “Though violet suits you.”

“Fuck off! You know, I would take revenge if I could...”

Oliver presses something wooden in his palm. A large brush? “You can. Do it.”

“What?”

“Do it. Take revenge. Don't worry, these studios have seen so much worse than a few paint stains.”

Elio hesitates. “But your clothes...?”

“Good point. Let me take my shirt off.” There's some rustling. “Okay.”

Oliver’s smell is stronger now. Male sweat, covered by deodorant; coffee; a hint of detergent. Elio hears him move, raises his hand, listens, aims as good as he can... “You asked for it.”

He flicks his wrist, hears thick splatters of paint hit skin with a soggy, smacking sound. Oliver hisses.

“Fuck! It's cold.” He moves again. Metal pots rattle. Elio takes a tentative step backwards but has no idea where he's going so he stops.

“Better take your hoodie off.” Is this a challenge? “I've no idea if these paints wash out. Fair warning.”

Elio just hesitates a moment before pulling his hoodie over his head, swapping his brush from left to right hand but not letting go. Oliver takes the hoodie from him and a moment later it lands somewhere to his left with a soft thud.

The next moment, a blotch of paint hits Elio square in the chest, seeping through his thin t-shirt.

“What color?” He asks, grinning.

“Yellow. It's not as nice as violet.”

Elio lunges out again. “And mine?”

“Cornflower-blue.”

He strikes once more. “Like your eyes.” Oliver gasps and curses so it's been another hit.

“You're good at this. How are you so good at this.” Elio hears him approach, instantly sensing his body heat. “Why are you so good at so many things?”

“What things?” Elio raises his brush, waits until he makes contact, then strokes it down over what must be Oliver's naked chest. He inhales sharply but doesn't step back.

“Like... holding it all together... you're so determined, so focused, so mature-”

Elio can't help but bellow out a laugh. “Me?”

“Yeah.” Now it's Oliver's turn to smear paint on his skin, his brush traveling up Elio's left arm like the lick of a tongue.

“I know nothing, Oliver.”

“Why are you always putting yourself down?” Oliver paints his other arm.

“So you won't.” Elio drops his brush and leans towards the warmth of Oliver's body. They are standing chest to chest now.

“I would never. I already told you that you're the bravest person I know.” Oliver’s brush dots the tip of Elio's nose and he sniffles, laughs.

“Stop that.”

“Make me.”

Elio tries a few times in vain to catch Oliver's arm, ending up with a face full of paint until he eventually succeeds in wrestling the brush from Oliver’s hand.

“I surrender.”

“You never stood a chance.” Elio whispers.

“I know.”

They just breathe, Elio's heart hammering in his chest.

“I missed you.” He says after a moment, not caring if it sounds sappy. “So much.”

“Yeah.” Oliver’s voice is rough.

And then Oliver is gently tilting his face up, waiting a heartbeat, two, until his lips brush Elio’s oh so tenderly.

“Okay?”

“Yes.” He hums, melting against Oliver.

The paint on their skin makes their bodies slick and slippery. It tastes vile when Elio gets it in his mouth. He coughs and can't help himself, spitting on the floor.

“Shit. Sorry.”

“As I said, these studios have seen worse.” And then he's all over Elio, walking them both backwards until Elio's shoulder blades hit the softness of a canvas mounted on the wall.

“I'm not... destroying... a valuable piece... of art...am I?” He pants between kisses.

“Who cares?” Oliver grabs his waist and that’s all the encouragement Elio needs to finally start kissing Oliver in earnest, opening his mouth as wide as possible, savoring his taste of coffee and a hint of tobacco. Oh god, how Elio’s body had been yearning for this… He loses his t-shirt sometime in the process but doesn’t mind as their naked limbs glide against the other, smearing paint everywhere.

When Oliver's big hands cup Elio’s shoulders before sliding lower, lower, until they find his ass, Elio cants his hips forward, meeting Oliver's thrusts. They both moan when their hard cocks touch, though still trapped inside their trousers.

Elio reaches down but Oliver quickly grabs his wrists.

“No. Stop. Let's talk. Please.” His voice is raw as if he screamed.

Elio groans with frustration. “Remember the last time?”

“Elio... we need to sort some things out first... because, yes, I do remember the last time.” Oliver steps away from him, releasing his arm.

Elio huffs but doesn't fight Oliver. He might have a point.

“Okay, but... can we clean up first?” He starts to get cold with Oliver so far away, covered in drying paint.

“There's a staff bathroom down the corridor. Let's go there.”

To his surprise, Elio discovers that a) that bathroom has a shower and b) that this is a good thing because it takes some effort to wash off oil paint.

So it’s only sensible that they shower together. He would have needed help with locating every splatter on his body anyway. And, okay, Oliver scrubbing his torso, arms, face and back with a washcloth feels… good. So good. When it tickles, he laughs, holding onto Oliver’s biceps not to slip. The smell of cheap standard school soap fills the air.

“Can I kiss you?” Oliver asks under the spray and all Elio can answers is a breathy “Yes, please”, cringing inwardly at the stiff formality of his words.

Speaking of stiffness… he’s getting hard while Oliver washes him. So hard that he can’t disguise it, poking Oliver’s leg with his boner. Oliver laughs into his ear, water spluttering, while paying special attention to the nether regions of his body despite it surely hadn’t been touched by paint.

“I love your cock, Elio.” He sighs, licking up Elio’s throat.

“Oliver… if you keep doing this there won’t be any talking, I’ll just dissolve into a puddle on the floor…”.

Oliver chuckles, pressing the washcloth in Elio’s hand. “Wanna have a go?”

Elio soaps Oliver’s hairy chest, his stomach, sides, thighs… making a point of not touching him between his legs…

When Oliver groans in protest Elio giggles and pinches his juicy ass.

They take it slow this time – maybe too slow, because in the end the water turns cold and Oliver has to wash himself under an icy spray while Elio flees the cubicle, shrieking, not caring if he walks into anything. The bathroom has seemed pretty empty apart from sinks on one wall and the shower cubicle in the corner.

“Traitor!” Oliver yells after him while Elio feels around for something like a towel to dry himself off.

“On the back of the door, twelve o’clock, but don’t ask me who used it last.”

The terrycloth smells a little musty but it can’t be helped. Oliver takes it from him a moment later.

“Your clothes are next to the sinks on three o’clock. Uhm… I’m sorry for your jeans, though.”

“What? Why?” Elio has started to get dressed again.

“There are handprints on it… yellow handprints… on your… backside. Very revealing.”

Elio has to giggle. “Oh, Professor Weizmann, you’ve been naughty.” That earns him a swat with the towel.

Back in the studio, Elio foregoes the stool to sit cross-legged on the floor while Oliver brews another Espresso. He drops his hoodie in Elio’s lap before handing him his cup again.

“Please, put something on.” His t-shirt is still missing. This affair with Oliver is taking a toll on his wardrobe.

“Am I distracting you?” Elio lowers his voice and tilts his head up, fluttering his eyelashes in the direction of Oliver’s voice.

“God, you’re such a handful.”

“I might need a firm hand to correct me.”

“And now I’m glad I had that cold shower. Otherwise…”

“Yeah?”

The silence is suddenly charged. A strong hand grabs Elio’s chin, holding him in place.

“Otherwise I might be tempted to bend you over the nearest table, yank those criminally tight jeans down and give you the good, hard thrashing you deserve, Elio Perlman, until you’d beg me to fuck you.” Then the hand is gone, leaving Elio reeling.

“Fuck, yes.” He whispers.

He’s gone hot all over. He’s sure he must be blushing right down to his navel. To hide his arousal he quickly pulls his hoodie over his head, clearing his throat when he’s dressed.

“So… talk is what you wanted to do…?”

He can hear Oliver breathing hard. “You’d let me?” The question is full of intense desire that fills Elio with a previously unknown impulse to kneel at Oliver’s feet and do as he’s told.

He just nods, his mouth dry. Where’s his fucking coffee?

“Okay. Good. Yeah... Let’s just establish a few things first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is shortish but I needed the next one to be from Oliver's PoV. I'll publish that quite soon, probably on Monday because that's a holiday here :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy their path to happiness.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now they talk for real! And Oliver has some momentous thoughts...

It feels as if all of Oliver’s blood has rushed south, pooling between his legs, making him uncomfortably hard as he crouches in front of Elio.

When he sits back on his heels he thanks a god he never really believed in that Elio can’t see the bulge at the front of his paint-stained trousers.

Elio hit him surprisingly often despite his disadvantage. And Oliver keeps no spare clothes in his studio, only some grubby overalls he uses when he airbrushes. At least his shirt stayed clean so he could put it back on.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches Elio feel around on the floor for his coffee cup. How much does he know about things like domination and submission, bondage, sensation play, the pleasures enduring and inflicting pain can bring? Oliver suspects Elio hasn’t done more than allowing an ex to tie him to the bed. That is not what Oliver was talking about.

He knows himself and what he likes. Thanks to Rachel. Before, he’d been stumbling around like so many others who seek the thrill of kinky sex without a deeper knowledge what that truly means and where it can take you. Mostly to the hospital in those unskilled scenarios.

But if done right, it expands your consciousness. And a scene where roles are assigned, boundaries set and limits respected might actually suit Elio. Beforehand negotiated encounters mean he knows what to expect as he can’t see it coming. It could make him feel save, help him to give up control, to just be in the moment and let go.

Oliver is aware that, despite his determination, iron will and bravery, Elio is more vulnerable than others. He remembers the incident at the subway and how angry Elio had gotten – not so much at the guy who ran him over, but at himself, for being helpless, 'deficient' as he'd called it. Oliver really wants Elio to overcome these dark thoughts. Feeling save, worshiped and cared for by someone he can trust will reveal his inner strength, will help him grow. Submission, experiencing pain and restraints in a controlled environment, finally finding his role and living it will give Elio much needed security and freedom.

But is Elio ready for something like this? After his last fiasco with honesty Oliver decides to treat very carefully. He’ll drop a few hints to see how they are received.

Meanwhile, Elio’s slim fingers have found his coffee cup. Oliver dares to take a sip himself, swallows, inhales, counts to five, exhales.

“Soooo…” He draws the syllable out until Elio raises his head and faces him again. “There you are.” He smiles, wants to touch, to kiss him again as his drying curls form an unruly halo around his delicate face but they have to clear the air before.

“I’m all ears.” Elio’s voice is still trembling a little. God, this boy… Oliver has to pinch his thigh to suppress all the debauched ideas he has to make Elio sound like this again: wrapping a hand around his long neck, slowly tightening his fingers; making him choke on his cock as he forces it down Elio’s throat, watching him fight his gag reflex; fucking his throat so hard that spit will drip from his stretched lips, dripping down his flushed torso; making him scream from a whip biting into his porcelain skin…

For doing all these things with Elio they need to trust each other. That’s especially important in Elio’s case, because he’s already deprived of one sense, and while this can be an exciting addition to impact play, as a permanent state it’s something Oliver will have to take extra care of to make sure Elio is comfortable. And trust isn’t earned overnight, it needs to be established. It’s a process.

“This time, I won’t start again with a love confession.” Oliver slumps back onto the hardwood floor, mimicking Elio’s pose, folding his long legs. They are a few feet apart but still close.

Elio answers with a giggle. “Sorry, I’m childish again.“ He covers his mouth with his hand.

“No, no, Elio, seriously, it was too much, I see it now. I just threw this at you without a warning. I shouldn’t have done that.“

“I’ve heard worse but, yeah, it came as kind of a surprise.” Elio starts stroking the rim of his cup, round and round. It’s very distracting.

Oliver can’t bring himself to ask if the surprise had been good or bad. Instead, he continues: “I just want you to know that… I usually don’t do one night stands.” At that, Elio makes a strange sound, a mixture between a grunt and a hiccup. The brief encounter with that stranger at the gay bar a week ago flashes through Oliver’s mind. Should he mention it? But he just got Elio back, he’s not prepared to lose him again for something that didn’t really matter. He shakes his head, still ashamed. So much for being honest and open. He needs to find the right balance between sharing too much and not enough information. A process, remember? Right. “It just doesn’t feel good to me.” That is at least not a lie. “My point is… I didn’t… I don’t… just want to get into bed with you. I really like you, Elio. And I hope that this… thing between us… can become something… serious? If you’re open to the possibility?”

Oliver forces himself not to take his eyes off Elio while he stammers his little monologue.

This time, Elio doesn’t freeze. He neither jumps up and runs away. But he frowns.

Oliver waits.

“What do you mean when you say serious?” Elio eventually asks.

Oliver swallows. “I mean… I want to _be_ with you. Not just in a physical way. I want to get to know you, spend time with you, talk to you…”

“Like… boyfriends?” Elio says the word with utmost care, as if it’s something he’s not really familiar with, a somewhat foreign concept. Oliver isn’t sure if that’s promising or not.

“Not necessarily.” The concession feels like ripping a part of his heart out. But he has to give Elio space, room to maneuver. If he agrees to Oliver's proposal it has to be out of his own free will “You’re nineteen. You probably don’t want to commit just yet. And probably not to someone like me-“

“What do you mean, someone like you?” Elio’s voice is sharp as his frown deepens.

Oliver feels obliged to list everything that speaks against a relationship between them. He wants informed consent, not just some hormonal bonding. “Elio, you’re still a student. And dance is pretty unpredictable. Who knows where all over the world you’ll work? While I’m a widower, seven years your senior, with a steady job. We're at totally different stages in life. And I guess we want totally different things from life. Like… I want stability. I’m not very adventurous. I want to settle down, build a home, yes, with a steady partner… And I totally get that this must be kinda scary for you. I just… had to tell you where I stand. So you know what you’re getting yourself into… if you should decide to do so.”

Elio’s doubtful expression starts to crack up into a grin.

Shit!

Is he outright laughing at Oliver’s sincerity?

He forces himself to remain calm as Elio’s light giggle bubbles up once more. Usually, Oliver loves the sound but right now it cuts through him like a knife.

He drains his by now cold coffee and waits for the final blow.

“Oh, Oliver… you’re such an idiot.” Elio’s voice sounds surprisingly gentle. It’s the second time someone calls him this tonight. ”Can I tell you a story?” 

“Sure.” Wolf to the slaughter. Whatever. As long as he still talks to him and doesn't bolt.

“The last guy I hooked up with – Marcus, that was his name, also older than me so you might say I have a type and don't call it daddy issues… Just _don't_! I so desperately wanted him to tell me the things you just said to me. That he wanted to get to know me, that he liked me, that he was thinking about a future for us… but all he did was shag me in a hotel room twice a week. Which was nice… for a while. Until it became shallow and cheap… and meaningless.”

Oliver feels a little sick. How could anyone treat Elio like he was just a plaything, a commodity to scratch an itch?

“And the more obvious it became how unrewarding it all was, the more I felt the need to fill that void between us with something. It became compulsive. I wanted to make plans. For the holidays. I hoped that maybe we could move in together later. I wanted us to do something else than just fuck. Until he… made it very clear that these things were out of the question. That he only wanted sex from me. Nothing else.” Elio’s voice dies and he coughs to clear his throat. “That was when he said I was becoming clingy.”

Oliver suddenly remembers their conversation at the MoMa. He wants to touch Elio but he has curled in on himself, hugging his torso, head bowed low, resting on his knees. Oliver fears that uninvited physical contact would spook him right now.

His voice is muffled when he continues: “And I guess I thought… okay, if this is what grown-ups do, I’ll play along. I didn’t want to be a nuisance, you know? So I buried my hopes and just went for the ride.” He raises his head, intertwining his fingers, clenching and unclenching them so his knuckles creak. “I didn’t dare to wish anything anymore, really. Because… it hurts, getting your hopes squashed. And it was all still raw when we met, so I wasn’t sure if I was ready to try again.”

Elio’s face is an open book: Oliver sees pain, expectations, disillusionment, anger. He looks very young, his expression not yet hardened with repeated disappointments.

Oliver scoots a little closer but still keeps his distance. “I understand. But I do hope you remember that I told you back at the museum that you weren’t clingy. You aren’t. God, if I could I would spend all my time with you.”

Elio smiles, a little lopsided. “Really?”

“I’ve been living for these two evenings a week over the last few months. God, Elio, there’s so much I want to know about you. And so much I want to show… no, scratch that, that was insensitive; so much I want to explore with you. If that works for you?”

Elio is biting his lower lip before tugging a curl behind his ear. He nervously plays with the drawstring of his hoodie, twirling it round and round his index finger. “What things?”

“Art. New York. Daily routines. And sexual fantasies.” There, it’s out. Now it’s up to Elio to take the bait.

The tip of his finger has gone white. “That sounds… interesting. All of it. And, I mean, we’ve been going kind of steady over the last few weeks. There hasn’t been anyone but you, Oliver, since we’ve met. Just, should you’ve been wondering.”

At that admission, Oliver simply has to touch. He warps his hand around Elio’s slim ankle and squeezes. He’s aware that it’s a rather possessive gesture but Elio only grins when his thumb starts to stroke up his shin.

“Which brings me to another point.” He says.

“What?”

“If we should really try and… do… this thing, whatever we call it… you can’t continue working for me. Not here at Cooper Union.”

“Ugh… yeah, that’s…” Elio puts one fist below his chin, inhales. “I see.” He murmurs, nods.

Oliver reaches for his free hand, takes it, turns it palm upwards. “You can’t depend on me financially. That doesn’t mean I won’t be happy to spoil you. But not as my model.”

“You don’t want to paint me anymore?” Elio is batting his eyelashes at him while his fingers curl around Oliver’s hand.

“Oh, I will paint you. Naked. Often. But you’ll just pose for me, not for a room full of strangers ogling you. I don’t share.” ‘What’s mine’ he'd like to add but that would be too much just now. Remember: Careful. Slow. Seeking consent.

“Uhm… okay, I like that idea. Just you and me and a pot of paint.” Elio's grin is lascivious. Oliver can’t help but smile back at him, even as he can’t see it. He somehow knows by now that Elio will register it nonetheless.

“So, could you imagine to become my… not-boyfriend?” Oliver’s thumb draws circles on Elio’s open palm. “But my muse, maybe?”

Elio blinks at him and Oliver once again has the distinct impression that he sees him in this moment, even as it is not physically possible.

“I might consider the offer.”

“You… _might consider the offer_. Right. Okay.” Oliver scoffs, pulling Elio close by the hand he’s been holding. He giggles. “What are you, Elio Perlman? A Victorian spinster?”

Elio laughs out loud at that. “Don’t hurt my sensibilities.” He clutches his free hand to his chest and throws his head back. Then he’s suddenly up on his knees, almost in Oliver’s lap. “Let me rephrase it.” He makes a rather dramatic pause. “I quit, Oliver. My job, that is.”

Now Oliver grins from ear to ear. He wants to kiss him breathless but holds back for a moment longer. Anticipation can be so delicious. “Oh no, Elio. You’re fired.” 

Despite his protests Oliver pulls him in until Elio’s straddling him, their foreheads pressed together. Oliver brings the hand he’s still holding to his lips, kissing every prominent knuckle. “Contract terminated. Due to health reasons. That way the Uni still has to pay you.”

“Clever.” Elio’s lips are just an inch away from his, his breath smelling of sugary coffee.

“See, I thought about this.”

“And I thought about the things you suggested earlier… bending me over a table…” Elio outright purrs.

“Ah, not so fast.” Oliver plants his hand in the middle of Elio’s chest. He feels his heart hammer beneath his ribcage. “These things need careful negotiation.”

“I have all night.” Elio growls.

“Well, I don’t.”

Elio sits back a little at his answer, his spine going rigid. “Oh… I thought… well, then I guess I’d better go.” He starts to get up.

„God, you stupid boy. Not here, I meant. I want to get you home and continue where we left off the last time.”

To Oliver’s utter delight Elio’s face blushes bright red up to his hairline.

“Get.A.Taxi.” He commands, standing up so fast he knocks over his half-empty coffee cup.

Neither of them care.

Half an hour later they are both naked in Oliver's bed, Elio's legs splayed wide, Oliver between them, sucking him off with abandon. His balls are already tight and Oliver can feel his cock swell in his mouth, tasting briny, bitter precome.

He pops off and Elio keens.

“Fuuuuck.”

“Yeah... can I...?”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

Oliver's finger tremble as he rips open the blister pack of a condom. He squeezes too much lube onto his fingers, the cool slick liquid dripping onto the sheets.

“I'm nervous.” He says as he starts to caress Elio's asshole.

Elio sighs and laughs as one finger slips in. “Shit... ahrg... it's been a while... slow... please.” But his face is blooming with a broad smile – half angelic, half devilish.

Hearing Elio beg makes Oliver’s cock twitch. But he won’t hasten things.

“Good?”

“Very.”

Elio goes non-verbal with two fingers up his ass, thrashing in the sheets as a third enters him.

“I'm ready... fuck, I'm so ready.”

“You ain't seen nothing yet, baby.” Oliver warns him.

“That's true. Just fuck me, will you.”

“Anything you want, love.” Oliver kisses the inside of Elio’s knee as he lines himself up before gently pressing in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger but the next chapter had to be from Elio's PoV.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, enough is enough. We've all waited long enough. Here it is. The next few chapters are basically pure smuff (fluffy smut). Lie back and enjoy!

Jesus fucking Christ – it hurts.

It really, really hurts.

Because Oliver is huge.

Of course, Elio knew that before, but still... the hurried preparation did not much to actually prepare him for this... this monster... But fuck it. He needs it. Now! He knows the pain will fade.

Oliver sinks in slowly, so slowly. It's too much and not enough. Elio wants more, faster despite knowing that this could cause serious injuries.

So he forces himself to be patient, to relax as best he can, for his body to open up and accept the strange yet desired intrusion.

He spreads wider, pulling up his knees, takes a deep breath.

“You okay?” Oliver asks above him, gentle, tender, his large hands gripping Elio's sweat-slick thighs.

He can only nod.

Oliver pushes in another inch and Elio has to bite his tongue not to cry out.

He's trembling. Oliver stills.

“Hey...”

“Just fucking take me, will you!?” He sounds so desperate and small and young – Elio would be embarrassed if he could muster the capability to reflect on the whole situation. But he can't as his whole being is reduced to a sore asshole.

He feels Oliver's hands tighten. He kneels up, changes the angle. Waits, inches forward, waits, manhandling Elio as if he weighs next to nothing.

It feels like being ripped in half.

“More lube. Please, please...” Elio hears Oliver squelch the bottle, cold slick hitting his stretched rim as he tries to control his breathing.

It's a little better afterwards.

“Kiss me.” He begs. He needs something soft and gentle right now to bear the burning ache.

As Oliver bends down the angle changes once again. With a sharp thrust, Oliver sinks an inch deeper and Elio sucks in a scream but simultaneously feels a current of lust surge through his body. If he could see there might be stars dancing in front of his eyes.

Because the pain suddenly transforms into something else... not quite pleasure but a fierce yearning, a promise of white-hot satisfaction.

He's so full he fears bursting.

“Yeah.... like this.” He gasps, his hands searching for a grip on Oliver’s sweat-damp skin.

“Good?” Oliver slowly rolls his hips. Is he holding back?

“Please, more.”

“You sure?”

“Oliver...!” Elio whines. He's so done talking. He wants action.

Oliver thrusts, stops, moves again. Elio's hands claw at his upper arms, his shoulders, until he suddenly feels Oliver's balls slap against his ass.

“That's all of it.” He whispers into Elio's ear, his voice raw, affected by emotions Elio can’t decode right now. “You're so good at taking it.”

At Oliver’s praise, Elio's cock twitches. He's breathing through his nose, too fast but then not fast enough because he seems unable to suck in enough oxygen. His head is foggy, his body dizzy with lust and pain, his nerve-endings firing off all sorts of confusing information. He wants Oliver to stop and to never stop at all.

Curiosity wins. He’s come this far, he now wants to see it through.

“Move.” He wraps his legs around Oliver’s waist, his heels digging into his plush ass.

“Oh god, Elio...”

“Fuck, yes.”

It hurts like hell. There's a point where he actually fears shitting himself and clenches in sudden panic. But the impulse comes and goes, and after a minute filled with shameful, humiliating trepidation there's this feeling again of burning alive but in a good way, of being electrocuted from within.

Holy fuck!

He fumbles for his cock, grabs it, starts stroking. God, that feels good! Oliver's shallow thrusts become more determined.

“Yes, more, like this... there! Right there.” Oliver has pulled back a little, his fat cockhead relentlessly brushing Elio's prostate. The friction draws an endless dribble of precome, making his own cock slippery as he fucks into his fist.

“Jesus, baby, you look so fucking hot... so fucking hot...” Oliver plows all the way in, burying himself in the very core of Elio's body, gyrating his hips. Big hands stoke the outside of Elio's thighs up to his waist, holding him firmly in place and he feels laid bare but doesn't mind.

“Tell me... talk to me.” He's floating, in need to be anchored.

“I can see... my cock... you're so tight, baby, you're doing so well. I fancy I can see myself move inside you...” Elio's strokes himself faster at the thought of Oliver's big cock being visible beneath the skin of his flat tummy, his hard length forming a ridge under the taut muscle.

“Oh, fuck...” He chokes out. He’s almost there, he can feel it, his balls tight, heavy, warm molasses pooling low in his belly, making his spine tingle…

Oliver pulls slowly back out. “God, the way you open up for me... this is... your hole is red and stretched so wide... this must hurt, Elio.”

As on cue, Elio whimpers.

“Hurt me all you want.” He sighs.

And that's what Oliver seems to have been waiting for. He slams back in, starting to fuck Elio in earnest. He thinks he screams, not for Oliver to stop but for more, faster, harder, deeper. YES!Yesyesyesyesyes...

And Oliver gives it to him, doesn't hold back any longer, all consideration gone. It's brutal, bordering on savage, but Elio loves it and might even shout how much he needs it, this, Oliver, his hard cock. He could swear he feels him in his stomach, his throat, eyes watering with this all-consuming, all- encompassing NEED to HAVE HIM as close as possible until Oliver pushes his tongue into his mouth, silencing him with a searing kiss that turns into almost biting because spunk and saliva and sweat are not enough anymore – Elio has to draw blood to seal their union.

When the coppery taste floods his mouth something primal unlocks inside him.

Sometime during this onslaught Elio's legs have fallen open and now Oliver's hands hold his thighs just beneath the back of his knees, spreading him wide open, his kneecaps pressing against his collarbones, bending him in half. Elio is shoved up the mattress with each thrust and has completely lost all sense of orientation. It's like flying, or drifting around in a warm sea of nothingness, his only purpose in life to take as much of Oliver as possible, their connection leaving the physicality of the sexual act behind and becoming something almost spiritual.

He couldn’t say where he ends and Oliver begins as their bodies become one.

It would be frightening if he didn't feel held by Oliver, who's grunting his name into his right ear as he buries Elio beneath his hot, heavy body. The air smells of latex, human exertion, desperation, blood, and frenzy. This act is bordering on madness and neither of them cares as they chase completion in each other’s arms, physical boundaries torn down as if they could literally rip the other open and crawl under his skin.

Elio's hand is trapped between them, getting a little numb, and it’s more a carnal reflex than a conscious decision as he tugs again on his cock, and again, noticing somewhere in his lizard brain that it swells and throbs and then he's coming all over himself, adding the salty tang of his cum to the heady mix of scents around them.

“Oh baby, yes, baby...” Oliver sits up and back and the cold hits Elio like a punch. Thank god Oliver doesn't stop moving. “I can see you shooting all over yourself, right up to your chest, your throat... god... this is...”

When Oliver pulls out Elio wants to protest but his yaw is slack and his language center apparently unable to form words. He just feels so empty he could cry.

“God, you're gaping, wide open...” It feels as if two fingers enter him, probing around a little until they hit home THERE RIGHT THERE and he bucks his hips, arching off the mattress with the uncontrollable surge for MORE. More touch, more friction, more sensation, more cum, even though he thought he was spent but apparently not as there’s still sticky spunk dribbling over his fingers. 

Oliver’s voice seems to come from far away when he asks: “Can I? Please, let me...” but somehow, even in his enraptured oblivion, it dawns on Elio what he means and he nods.

He hears Oliver rip off the condom and a wave of his almost animalistic scent hits his olfactory nerve before hairy thighs bracket Elio's torso, trapping his arms at his side.

Oliver is panting something like “Oh, baby, yes, yes, you're so gorgeous...” and Elio instinctively opens his mouth just when the first drop of Oliver's hot cum hits his chin – but to his disappointment he only catches some. Most of it lands on his chest, followed by Oliver's hands as he sits back on Elio's legs, rubbing their mixed ejaculate into Elio's skin.

He moans at the touch, Oliver's palms rubbing his sensitive nipples, and begs for Oliver to continue until he catches one of his hands and sucks a wet finger into his mouth. Oliver's sharp inhale makes him grin, chasing him open-mouthed as Oliver quickly pulls his hand back.

“You are the devil.” Oliver whispers, scooping Elio's boneless body up in his arms until he sits in his lap and they are chest to gooey chest.

“That was the best fuck I've ever had.” Oliver's kiss is gentle. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Elio laughs, still a little breathless.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Let me check.” Oliver lowers him back down and flips him on his stomach. His check-up turns into some more lazy fingering that turns into a sluggish rim job but they are both too sedated and satisfied to take it into serious territory.

“I could do this all night but you might want a shower.” Oliver says eventually against the swell of Elio's left buttock. It's true, he feels drenched in sweat, spit, lube and spunk, the drying mess on his chest, throat and chin starting to itch uncomfortably as it seeps into the bedding.

“I think I'm glued to the sheets.” He mumbles.

Oliver laughs, picks him up and carries him into the bathroom, sitting him down on the closed toilet seat as he turns on the shower. Elio hisses but the cool plastic feels kind of nice.

“You look debauched.”

“Thank you.” Elio says primly, brushing a stray curl behind his ear before slumping forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers scratching flaking remnants of lovemaking from his skin.

“You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine, Oliver.” He sighs. Well, apart from a fierce soreness between his buttocks, a split lip and what feels like acute razor burn on his face and neck.

The shower helps. Oliver gently washes him, the second time this night, even his hair, then dries him off with a fluffy towel and leads him back to bed. His legs still feel like jelly.

“What time is it?” Elio asks as he rolls on his side, Oliver behind him, pulling the covers up over them both.

“Just after two. Do you have anything on tomorrow?”

“I have rehearsal at nine.” He's already drifting off.

“Okay, I’ll set the alarm.” After a little shuffling Oliver wraps his arm back around him and Elio snuggles close. The last thing he registers is Oliver pressing a kiss into his wet hair. It will look like a bird's nest tomorrow but that can't be helped right now.

 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Rise and shine.” Elio just grunts in response, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Fuck.Off.” He mumbles.

“Ah, you're definitely a morning person. Good to know. Thank god I brought coffee as a peace offering.”

Elio just grunts some more but comes up from under the pillow and sniffs.

“'kay...” He stretches out an arm in the general direction of Oliver's voice, his hand curling around a hot mug pressed into his palm. He only lifts his head far enough from the mattress to put the mug to his lips and take a sip.

“Try not to spill this in my bed, okay.”

“You'll have to change the sheets anyway.” Elio's yawn becomes a shriek when Oliver swats his ass sticking out from under the duvet. “Not helping.” Balancing the mug in one hand he tries to sit up without making a mess. “What time is it?”

“Seven.”

“Jesus fuck me.” Elio groans. He feels around with his free hand until he finds the head board and scoots towards it. As he drags his sore ass over the mattress he can't suppress a low gasp. He’ll feel that for a while. “Since when have you been awake?”

“I got up an hour ago and put your dance clothes in the wash. They're now in the dryer, should take till eight. I thought you would want fresh things... so you can stay here a little longer?”

Elio drinks his coffee and grins. “Thank you. That's... very thoughtful.” He's glad he can go directly to class without having to stop by his apartment. “Remembering what happened to my crop-top...?”

“I've no idea what you're talking about and even if I had I wouldn't answer you.”

“That bad? You know, this only gives me the worst ideas.”

“Then you're probably right. And you should also remember that I gave it back. I don’t collect trophies. Do you eat breakfast?”

“Nice change of topic, Professor. What's on offer?” Elio drops his teasing as his stomach grumbles.

“Uhm, I might be able to unearth a Mars bar from somewhere. Also maybe some stale cookies?”

“I think I stick to coffee then.” He shrugs. Oliver put at least three spoons of sugar into his.

“Sorry, I wasn't expecting... anyone.”

“Last time you made me an omelet.” Elio pouts.

“Last time you stormed out of my apartment and didn't talk to me for nearly two weeks.”

“Yeah, okay... but not because of the breakfast.”

He hears Oliver sigh. “Okay, listen, as we still have an hour to spare...” The mug is taken from Elio's hand but he doesn't protest because Oliver leans close and starts to kiss his neck. He smells of detergent and coffee and soap and toothpaste so he already showered, reminding Elio that he must look and smell like the unmade bed he sits in.

He raises a hand, touches his hair. It feels wild. “Shit.” He huffs.

“I’ll brush it for you later.” Oliver murmurs against his ear before sucking his earlobe between his soft lips.

Elio squirms a little. It still stings uncomfortably. “I don't think I can go again.” He mumbles as he tilts his head to the side to give Oliver better access.

“Oh, I didn't want to... not that. There's so much else we can do. Just lie down. Don't move.”

Over the next 30 minutes, Elio experiences what he can only describe at being worshiped by Oliver. He kisses down his neck, his torso, his wet tongue playing with his nipples, then moves lower, lower, spreads his legs, fondles his balls, licks the crease between thigh and groin – but never getting where Elio needs him most until he's cursing like a sailor.

When this doesn't get his dick in Oliver's mouth he starts to beg.

But Oliver – mean, nasty, horrible Oliver - just grins against his stomach.

“Patience.”

“Please... I need...”

“I know, baby.”

In his desperation his hands eventually fly to his cock, tugging his twitching shaft, the head already resting in a puddle of precome on his stomach.

But Oliver peels his hand away, pins his wrists down onto the bed.

“No, no, no.”

“Oliver... you’re a monster!”

“No!” It's firm, a command that makes Elio's cock grow even harder.

“Then you'll have to hold me down because I fucking can't anymore!”

“If that's what you want...”

And Oliver keeps his wrists in a deadlock while his mouth continues to tease Elio, his teeth gently scraping his left nipple until he thrashes his legs and bucks his hips.

“Please, just touch me, you bastard.”

“I am touching you, Elio.”

“Not where I need it!” He growls and Oliver laughs against his skin.

“But I can't remove my hands or you'll play with yourself and where's the fun for me in that?”

“Well, at least you can watch. All I can do is feel your fat cock against my side.”

“Do you mind?” Oliver rolls away and Elio howls.

“Youcouldyouknowtiemeup?” Elio lets the words fall from his mouth and feels his whole face heat.

Oliver gathers him close; his hands around Elio's wrists are suddenly gone as he kisses his face while his cock pokes Elio in the stomach next to his own erection.

“That's nothing you should offer this fast and flippant, as on a whim.” Oliver sounds grave.

“But I mean it.” Elio mumbles (against Oliver's collarbone by the feel of it).

“I know.” Oliver is silent for a moment, then pulls Elio on top of him, their cocks brushing deliciously wet against the other. “Come on, take what you want.”

And Elio loses himself in writhing and shuddering against Oliver's warm, strong body, rutting against his thigh, his cock, his belly until Oliver wraps one of his huge hands around both of them while the other rests around Elio’s neck, bringing them off with a few slow, firm strokes.

Elio shouts when he comes, feeling for Oliver’s fingers slick with their mixed cum that's covering his tight fist.

“Jesus, you're loud.” Oliver’s thumb is stroking over Elio's Adam’s apple.

Elio swallows, a little embarrassed. “Sorry...”

“Don't be. I'm sure my neighbors are quite happy to finally have something to gossip about. At least I'm not the lonely widower anymore.”

There's a quick kiss and then they have to shower and get dressed. Oliver empties the dryer while Elio brushes his teeth. It's almost like living together, Oliver jokes, then gets into a coughing fit. But Elio just grins and doesn't mind, minty foam dripping down his chin.

“About that tying up thing-” He starts after he rinsed, when Oliver has made good on his promise to blow-dry his hair and is now brushing his curls.

“I haven't forgotten. We'll talk about it... if you really want it.”

“I think I do.” Elio allows his body to sink back against Oliver, just savoring his reassuring presence. “But all this talking... it's not because I'm blind, is it?”

“No, Elio, that's not the reason. I just need to be sure that we're both clear what we're negotiating, that we can each set our limits, the things we want to try. Think about that, okay, and next time we meet we can start to figure things out.”

Oliver changes at Union Square and Elio is glad that he doesn't insist on accompanying him all the way to Barnard. It seems as if Oliver is beginning to understand what Elio has to do on his own. Their good-bye kiss is too short for Elio's liking, though.

“You greedy little thing. Call me tonight when you're home, okay.”

“Okay... Oliver...?”

But the door closes and Oliver is gone while the train rattles on.

What would he have said otherwise? That he loved what they'd done? That he didn't want him to go? That he already misses him or some other platitude he usually finds cringe-worthy but that feels embarrassingly true all of a sudden...

_'Clingy.'_ He hears a voice in his head whisper but it shuts up when Elio's phone starts to buzz.

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to tell you I already miss you.” Oliver laughs and then the line goes silent as Elio's metro reaches a dead zone deep down in the subway tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you, toothrotting smuff :)


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More domestic smuff :) With more art by Chalamazed :)

They'd planned to spend the weekend together but it kicks off to a somewhat unfortunate start. Elio arrives late at Oliver's apartment on Friday night. When Oliver opens the door to him he's in a mood because first one of his flatmates had mislaid two of his leotards after sorting the washing and it had taken almost an hour to search for them (they'd ended up in Chiara's closet) and then, when Elio had finally packed his things, there'd been some disruption on the subway.

Therefore it's almost eleven when Elio drops a heavy dufflebag in Oliver's living room and groans that he just wants to go to bed.

Oliver understands and silently puts away the dinner he's prepared – it's just Cantonese take-away still in its containers, it'll keep till tomorrow. When he reemerges from the kitchen Elio has already found his way into the bedroom and is taking off his clothes.

Oliver walks up to him from behind and hugs him around his slim waist. Elio is just in his jeans and socks, his shoulders tense.

“Hey, it's good to have you here.” He kisses Elio's nape, his curls tickling his nose, and feels Elio relax a little.

“Sorry, I think I'm just tired.”

“It's fine, we have all weekend.” Oliver kisses his neck again. He still smells a little of his shower gel beneath stale sweat and exhaustion.

“But I had plans.” Elio whines, leaning back into Oliver's chest.

“As I said, we've time.”

Elio sniffs. “Is that black bean sauce?”

“I got us some food. But we can eat it tomorrow.”

Elio nods, gnaws on his bottom lip. “Actually, I have training tomorrow and Sunday, from noon till six. The performance is in two weeks.” He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his long, pale throat. “I hope that's alright?” He sounds shy, uncertain, apologetic.

“Elio, I'm not holding you hostage.”

A grin spreads on Elio's face. “About that-” He turns in Oliver's embrace.

Oliver just kisses the tip of his nose and presses his index finger to Elio's curved lips. “No, I'm not discussing these things with you when you're annoyed and tired.”

“That might extremely shorten your opportunities.” Elio tries to bite his finger.

“Let's go to sleep.” Oliver releases him and walks into the bathroom. “The toothbrush on the left is yours.”

He can't help but smile when brushing his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror. Elio is really here, with him, second night in a row. _'Don't get ahead of yourself.'_ A voice in his head reprimands him. _'It's one weekend. It's too early to think about anything more. He's nineteen.'_

Still, Oliver is happy. Very happy.

His smile even widens when, in bed, Elio's hand searches for his body and when he finds it rolls over to rest his head on his chest, one slim leg thrown over Oliver's thighs.

“You're so hairy everywhere.” Elio sighs and rubs his cheek against Oliver's woolly chest. “I like that. Feels nice.”

Oliver has no idea what to say to that. “You feel nice too.” He replies and then smacks himself inwardly but Elio only snuggles closer.

“You want a blow job?” He asks next and Oliver huffs out a silent laugh through his nose.

“I thought you're tired?”

“I am tired. That's why it will _only_ be a blow job.”

“The perks of being young.” Oliver sighs while Elio's mouth is already traveling down his body, rubbing his face against the coarse hair covering Oliver's belly.

“Furry.” He purrs before gently biting the soft skin of Oliver's stomach, making him gasp and squirm a little.

Next, Elio quickly pushes Oliver's boxers down before swallowing as much of his cock as he can. It doesn't take long for him to become fully erect under Elio's ministrations.

Quite skilled ministrations.

God, Elio's mouth feels at least as sinful as it looks. Oliver leans up on his elbows and watches the best he can in the moonlight streaming through the window blinds.

Elio's curly head is bobbing between his legs, his hair tickling Oliver's lower belly. He can only take about half of Oliver's cock in his mouth so for the rest he uses his right hand. His left is buried beneath his almost naked body and by the look of it busy between his own legs.

Elio's flat tongue massages the underside of Oliver's shaft as his lips slide up and down. It's wet, warm, soft... until Elio presses the tip of his tongue firmly against the sensitive spot just beneath the engorged head. Oliver bucks up while Elio's on the downslide again and hits the back of his throat. He coughs, gags but doesn't pull off – instead he tries to take Oliver even deeper, his yaw going slack as Oliver's cock slides past his soft palate.

Oliver stares, waits a second, before bringing his right hand up, raking it through Elio's curls, stroking silky strands back so he can see his face. His eyes are open, reflecting the moonlight like a cat's, protruding a little from their sockets as his lips are stretched impossibly wide around Oliver's enormous girth.

Oliver holds Elio's head for a moment, cradling the back of his skull, waiting for a sign. He gets it when Elio removes his spit-slick hand from the base of his cock and puts it over Oliver's in his hair, applying just the lightest pressure while hollowing his cheeks, sucking firmly.

“Good boy.” Oliver whispers before pressing Elio's head down.

At first his throat spasms while battling the intrusion. He gags again, tries to swallow as he visibly fights the impulse to pull off. It looks painful and Oliver is about to release him when suddenly Elio's throat opens and relaxes, taking Oliver deeper than ever before. Elio hums, by now humping the bed in earnest, and just when Oliver wonders if Elio might run out of oxygen he groans and splutters, saliva dripping down over Oliver's balls as he obviously comes.

“Elio...” Oliver moans, watching Elio twitch and rut, his own ass clenching as he still holds him down. Just a moment longer, just a moment...

The desperate noises Elio makes shoot up Oliver's spine and he drags the sensation out until he senses the struggle getting real. Elio’s on the verge to pass out when Oliver's fingers tighten in his hair and he pulls him up, his cock popping form his mouth with a wet slurp.

Elio's panting as if he'd just run a marathon. His chin is glistening wet; his eyes shine bright, so bright, as Oliver holds him in place between his legs while sitting up, pumping his cock one, two, three times before shooting all over Elio's face, painting his high cheekbones, his nose, lips, forehead, eyelashes with thick, creamy cum while growling his name.

Elio's lips curve up in an eerie smile as the first spurt hits his skin. Oliver kisses them and kisses them as he gently laps his own release off Elio a moment later.

His feet land in a damp spot down on the mattress after he's cleaned Elio up with some Kleenex from the nightstand. They are both too sedated to make it to the bathroom to wash.

“Okay...?” Oliver asks.

“Yeah.” Elio still sounds husky.

“Not too much?”

“I loved it.”

“You're remarkable.” Oliver grins, holding Elio close against his chest again.

“Yeah...” He seems about to drift off.

“We need to talk about a few things, though.”

“T'morrow...”

“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.” Oliver is still smiling when he falls asleep.

 

“Okay, we need to get tested. And you have to pick a safeword.” Oliver sets down a mug of coffee on the nightstand next to Elio's tousled head the next morning.

“Fuuuuck.” Is the answer he receives, groaned into a pillow. “What time is it...?”

“It's eight.”

“It's the _weekend_.” Elio crawls back under the duvet Oliver is trying to pull off of him.

“Well, you've training. And we really need to talk. After last night... that was pretty intense, baby. We have to discuss these things.”

“What things?” Comes from beneath the pile of blankets.

“Can you look at me when I talk to you?”

“No.”

Shit, okay, that was dumb. “I mean,” Oliver takes a sip of his own coffee as he sits cross-legged on the mattress, “can you sit up, have a coffee, and let me explain a few things?”

Elio grumbles and grumbles some more but eventually leans propped up against the headboard, coffee in hand, a sheet covering him almost up to his chin. Is that spunk in his hair?

“Okay, yeah, fine...” Oliver is a bit at a loss how to begin and Elio is not forthcoming either. “Ugh.”

“I’m listening.” Elio grins into his mug. His curls are all over the place and there's a pillow crease in his left cheek. He looks adorable and about fourteen which makes Oliver's mission even harder.

His own mug is almost empty already but Oliver forbids himself to flee into the kitchen for a refill. It will be his reward after getting some things across.

“So, what we did last night. Did you like that?”

“What? Sucking you off? Of course. Didn't you notice?”

Oliver remembers the wet spot his feet had lain in afterwards. “I don't mean... what I mean is me holding you down, making you gag, choke... did you like _that_?”

Elio blushes a deep beetroot. Oliver is reminded again that he's just nineteen. God, what are they doing?

“Yeah... I guess...?” Elio mumbles, his short fingernails tapping against the stoneware.

“You _guess_?” That's not enough. “Okay, then we shouldn't do this again.”

“What? Why?” Elio sits up straighter and spills some coffee onto the sheet. Oliver ignores it.

“Because I can't enjoy these things when I'm not sure that _you_ enjoy them as well.”

“But I do! I do enjoy it! I did!” Elio rakes a hand through his hair that gets stuck on something coagulated. He makes a face and Oliver snickers. “What? That's not funny.”

“It is a little bit. Like in that movie... you know?”

“What movie?”

Right, nineteen. Remember, Oliver.

He tries to get serious again. “Maybe you can tell me a bit more about what you enjoy?”

“Do I really have to?” Elio's squirming a little, his face still bright red.

“I'm afraid, yes. Otherwise I can't take proper care of you.”

“Care?” Elio spits the word out. “I thought this was about, you know... domination? You forcing me? Or... I don't know... slapping and stuff, punishment?”

Jesus. Okay. “I think we have to go over a few basics here, Elio. I will never hurt you. The kind of dynamic I aspire, that turns me on, is a power exchange. But it's not about inflicting pain or humiliation for the sake of it. I'm not a sadist. I don't get off on torturing you.”

Elio stays quiet. He looks lost.

“When I hold you down or tie you up you're giving yourself over to me. Willingly. And the things I do to you should help you to lose yourself. It's not about beating you and calling you a filthy whore.”

At that Elio inhales sharply, visibly perking up.

“Oh. Okay. Is that one of your fantasies?” Oliver asks carefully.

Elio bites his lower lip and nods. Oliver needs a moment to collect himself.

“Okay... listen, I can do that. But we have to set boundaries-”

“I won't break!” Elio shouts, bringing one fist down onto the mattress.

“Elio, you've no idea what you're talking about!” Oliver just slightly raises his voice. Elio pouts but doesn't talk back for once. “These things can seriously fuck with your body and mind. I have to know how far I can go. You have to know how far I will go. To trust me.” Elio makes a sound of protest but Oliver continues. “Yes, I know that it's hard for you. Harder than for others. And that's okay. I'm aware that you're very independent. You're strong. That's what I... like... about you. I told you I admire you. But that also makes it more of a challenge for me. To make you surrender. We have to start slow. If you want to, that is.”

Elio stays silent for a long time, his head bend forward as if he's staring into his lap.

“Hey...” Oliver gently touches his cheek, puts his index finger beneath his chin to lift his face. “Have I spooked you?”

Elio shakes his head. “Last night... I liked that you made me take it. That you believed I could take it. And that you... marked me.” He touches his hair again.

“You did very well.” The pad of Oliver's thumb grazes Elio's bottom lip until he tilts his head and bites it. Two crimson spots burn bright on Elio's cheeks. “So, tell me, what else would you like to try?”

Elio reluctantly releases his finger. Oliver expects something conventional like Elio asking him again to be tied up but he's in for a surprise. He should have known, his Elio is complex.

“Don't laugh, okay?”

“I won't laugh at you. How about you tell me one thing, and I tell you one in return?”

Elio nods. “Okay. Good. I... have this fantasy, okay? Like, I'm an escort and you hired me... and you treat me like that. You tell me what to do, and I... have to do it. You even pay me in the end.”

Oliver's cock twitches in his boxers. “And what would I tell you to do?” He tries to keep his voice even.

“To get on my knees. To open my mouth. You'd... do it like last night. Fuck my face. And then I’d have to get on all fours and you would take me... rough, without much preparation. Hard. You'd slap my ass. And you'd... call me names.” He's blushing hard, right down to his barely visible collarbones, but he doesn't hide his face. “Afterwards, you'd just send me away.”

Oliver's mouth has gone dry, his pulse hammering in his temple. “Okay... yes, I think we could do that.”

A lewd grin spreads on Elio's face. “Now you.”

Oliver clears his throat, licks his lips. “I don't have such a specific scenario in mind. It's more... things I like to do... I want to do with you. I... want to tie your hands and bend you over a table... pants pulled down. And just leave you there for hours. Exposed. You wouldn't know when I'd finally fuck you. Or if. I want to tie you to the bed, naked, for a whole day, and bring you to the edge again and again. But you wouldn't be allowed to come.” Oliver is sure that his face is by now as red as Elio's. “I'd also like… to use some toys on you until you beg me to fuck you for real.”

“That were three.”

“Don't get prissy.”

“So, it's about control for you?” Elio asks.

“Yes.” He's a clever boy.

“And what if I would defy you? Would you punish me?” Elio sounds eager.

“What do you mean? Like whips and spankings and such?”

“Yes?”

“If that's what you need... though I doubt pain really does it for you, Elio.”

“Why? Because of the accident...” He's getting defensive again.

“Because you're a dancer. You're used to endure pain. No, your punishment would be something you really dislike, something new to get you out of your comfort zone and allow you to let go, to give yourself over. An exercise in patience.”

Elio frowns. “Like what?”

Oliver grins. “I could put you in chastity, for example.”

“No, you wouldn't-”

“And as you like to talk so much I could make you wear a gag all day, drooling all over yourself. Or I could just leave you tied up without touching you, jerking off next to you while watching you squirm, coming all over your naked body but never offering you release-”

“And you said you're no sadist...”

The sheet covering Elio is tented by now. Oliver gently takes his coffee mug from him before pulling the covers away. As he closes his fingers around Elio's erection he gasps at the touch.

“Hands behind your head.” Oliver tells him, and Elio obeys with a sharp inhale, the muscles of his stomach flexing. He's about to say something when Oliver shuts him up with a kiss, never once letting go of his mouth until he feels Elio's cum all over his hand a few minutes later.

His body sinks back, boneless, a big grin on his kiss-swollen lips.

“Wow, okay...”

By now, Oliver's own erection is peaking out of his boxers.

“You forgot something, baby. Turn around. I'll make you think of me during your training.”

Despite Elio telling him that he wants it rough, wants to be used, Oliver doesn't think he's ready for it. So he rolls him on his side and takes his time to slick him up both with his own release and lots of lube before eventually putting on a condom and pushing into his pliant, slack body, listening to Elio's soft moans while watching his profile contort with pleasure.

“You feel so good, baby. So good.” Oliver sighs as he sinks in all the way. It's still a miracle how Elio's delicate body can take someone as big as him. Staring down, his hairy torso is such a stark contrast against Elio's alabaster skin that's it's nearly enough to make him come.

“Okay, fuck yourself on my cock, baby. I’m just lying back and enjoy.”

Elio sighs, clenching around him, wiggling his ass and arching his back as he does all the work, bucking his hips faster and faster, his tight heat adjusting to the penetration, welcoming it. He’s in charge here and Oliver spurs him on with gentle encouragement, stroking his sides, his hair, one hand holding him, pressed to the middle of his heaving chest. 

He watches Elio’s opening swallowing him again and again, his hole glistening wet, and when Elio finds the right angle to hit his prostate his moans become gasps. Despite having just come he shudders with another dry orgasm that is enough to push Oliver over the edge as well.

A few minutes later it's Oliver lying kind of sedated in the sheets, watching Elio limping into the bathroom, with a very satisfied expression on his face.

“Oh, I thought about a safeword.” He says when he comes back, wet, rosy, unabashedly beautiful in the nude. “I guess it should be something I wouldn't otherwise say in bed, right?”

“Right.”

“Peach.”

Oliver laughs. “You sure you'll never use that word in bed?”

“Why would I?”

“Well, to describe my well-rounded, fuzzy, smooth posterior for example.”

Elio drops down onto the mattress as his shin collides with the bedframe, crawling up to Oliver, his soft cock hanging between his toned legs, the muscles in his arms bulging with each movement.

“You remind me more of a coconut tree.” He grins.

Oliver pulls him down and kisses him until the dazed expression returns to his face.

That expression stays over the whole weekend. On Monday morning there's soy sauce on Oliver's sheets and a pile of sweaty dance-clothes on his bathroom floor and when Elio comes cursing into the kitchen at 8:30 to grab a coffee before leaving, already one arm up the sleeve of his leather jacket, it makes Oliver's heart swell for a change; over the last two days his blood has been pooling mostly elsewhere.

This is what it feels to be a couple. He missed it so much.

“Take care.” He can only peck Elio on the cheek because he's in a hurry, already turning away to leave, his gym bag bumping against the counter. But it's fine.

“You call when we have an appointment, yes?” Elio asks, unfolding his cane.

“Sure.”

Elio is almost out of the door but then returns. “Give me a real kiss.”

They both run very late that Monday morning.

 

\----------

Chalamazed did it again!

Follow them on Twitter: https://twitter.com/chalamazed

This fic now also has a beautiful cover! Look at those eyes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love this story gets :)
> 
> The movie Oliver refers to is 'There's Something About Mary'  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There%27s_Something_About_Mary


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...where we learn a little more about Elio's and Oliver's past.

Being with Oliver is good. Really, really good. A little reluctantly Elio has to admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, he's falling a little bit in love.

Okay, more than a little bit.

Oliver simply swept him off his feet. He can't remember the last time someone made him so happy.

And what's even better - it doesn't frighten him. Usually, Elio would live in fear of losing what's dear to him – but not with Oliver. Because he's... steadfast. Faithful. In a very old-fashioned but nevertheless completely true way.

Elio trusts him.

It's strange not to be modeling on Tuesday. He even misses it a little. Instead of sitting naked in front of a bunch of students from six to eight and going for juice and tea afterwards he's at Oliver's (he got a spare key on the weekend so he could come and go according to his training schedule), listening to the television until he hears the door open.

Oliver has gotten take-away again – Mexican this time by the smell of it.

“We have to go shopping. We can cook.” Elio tells him as a still hot container is placed in his lap. “This costs a fortune.”

“I can't cook for shit.” Oliver replies as the sofa next to Elio dips.

“You can. You made breakfast. And I can teach you. To cook pasta. I make a really mean Arrabbiata sauce.” Elio fumbles with the lid of his container. “What is this?”

“Enchiladas. Careful, they're hot.”

After two bites Elio's mouth burns. “What do they put in this? _God_...” He coughs.

Oliver laughs, touching his chin with a napkin. “You had some sauce there. So you can cook pasta?”

“Mafalda taught me. She was… is… our house keeper in Crema. I think I told you about her? I can also make risottos, and salads.” Oliver groans. ”Okay, pancakes too.”

“You and your salads. But the rest sounds great. We'll go shopping for the weekend. What were you watching? Don't tell me it was _'Dirty Dancing'_ again.”

“Hey, that's a great movie! But no. And you really need voice control for the TV. I was just killing time, now that I'm unemployed...”

He hears Oliver snicker. “The students asked about you. I told them you had to cancel for the rest of the semester due to family reasons.”

“Family reasons?”

“Well, close enough.”

Elio dares to take another bite because he's famished. He can already feel his stomach protest.

“Did you find a replacement for me?”

Oliver is chewing and therefore needs a moment to answer. “No, I had them draw some fruit and a carafe. But a model from a colleague’s class will fill in on Thursday.”

“Oh.”

“She's been working with Cooper Union for several years.”

“She? So they get to draw some boobs?”

“Well, for the sake of variety.” They eat in silence for a minute before Oliver says: “We have an appointment. On Friday afternoon. Can you make that?”

Elio puts his Enchilada down, wipes his fingers on a paper napkin he found in the container. His hands tremble slightly “Sure. Where?”

Shit. Things are really getting serious.

“A test center in Midtown. They do rapid testing. We'll have the results within twenty minutes.”

Elio swallows. “You have a beer?” He asks.

There's a short pause. “Yeah. Sure.” Oliver gets up. Elio hears him open the fridge. Then he returns and presses a cold bottle into Elio's hand.

Elio takes a large gulp, not only to wash the burning taste from his tongue.

“Are you nervous?” Oliver sounds a little worried.

“Aren't you?”

“Well, I'm pretty sure I'm negative but... yeah, it's always a strange feeling.”

“I've never done a test.” Elio blurts out as his fingers start to peel the label from the bottle.

“Never?”

“No. We… I... always used protection. I mean... I didn't sleep with that many guys anyway so...”

“Is this a good time to inquire about your love life prior we met?”

“Uhm... as good as any, I guess.”

“I don't want to pry, you know.” Oliver sits closer, loosely putting an arm around Elio's shoulder.

Elio snorts a laugh. “Well, there's not much to pry. A few boys from school. But nothing serious... despite maybe Matteo. We both attended the Accademia Teatro Alla Scala in Milan. He was... my first. You know.” His face heats up. This is a bit awkward.

Elio usually doesn’t like to dwell on the past but now he remembers...

“He was from Bergamo. Tall. Quiet. Very serious. Hugely talented. I thought I could try... with him. For real, you know. I... bottomed, is that the word? We both had never done it before. There was not enough lube and the condom almost slipped off...”

But in the end he’d successfully managed to lose his virginity.

Not that it had been a particularly enjoyable experience.

But as Matteo was both been dedicated and determined they'd repeated their attempts at lovemaking a couple of times. It got better. But somehow they both must have known that it wasn’t to last, that theirs was just a temporary affair, bound to end when school would be over.

And so it did.

“He now studies at the Vaganova Academy in St. Petersburg. I doubt he has many chances for sex with men there but who knows? Maybe Matteo doesn’t even mind? If he had to choose between dance and sex I'm pretty sure Matteo would've chosen dance.”

As would've Elio. At least that’s what he thought for a long while. He might be wavering a little right now.

“Before him I had some... flings. Just hand jobs, the odd blow job... And after him there was Marcus and that's it.” Elio confesses a little breathless, rolling the sticky paper label between his fingers.

“No girls?” Oliver sounds doubtful.

“Well…,” Elio leans back against the couch, wedging his bottle between his knees, folding his hands behind his head. “There was this German girl I met one summer. Blond. A little older than me...”

“And?”

“She kissed me.” He grins.

“And?”

“I screamed, kicked her shin and ran away. I was eight.” He takes another sip of beer, pulls his feet up on the seat and rests his brow against his knees. “And then there was an ill-advised attempt at hooking up with Marzia when drunk on New Year’s Eve. It still embarrasses me. No idea what I was thinking. Probably not much.” He groans. “I always kinda knew that I liked only boys. You?”

Quid pro quo.

Oliver is quiet for a long while. The arm around Elio’s shoulder is gone. The silence feels tense.

“You don’t have to tell me, you know. I get it, it might be painful… I mean, remembering what happened to Rachel-“ Elio tries to take his question back.

“It’s not that.” Oliver sounds suddenly cold, bitter. Totally not like Oliver. It frightens Elio a little. He sits up, puts his beer on the floor, reaches for Oliver and finds his leg, squeezes it. Hears him draw a deep breath. “It’s my parents. Sometimes I wish they were dead.”

Elio shakes his head. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it.” There's so much venom in these four words, it makes Elio recoil. How can someone hate their parents the way Oliver seems to do? What happened between them?

“Why?” He dares to asks, carefully. He doesn’t want to upset Oliver but now that the issue is on the table it feels important to get to the bottom of it. Oliver has dropped hints about his family a few times before but now he seems ready to disclose more.

“Because they are rich, privileged, bigoted hypocrites.”

Elio tries to digest this, stroking Oliver's thigh. “But… but you told me they loved your wife.”

Oliver snorts. “Oh yes, they loved Rachel. Or not so much her as for herself and as a person... but that I was married to a woman. You must know, in my sophomore year in high-school my mother caught me making out with a neighbor when I was home from boarding school over Thanksgiving. His name was Daniel. Stumbling upon us somehow crushed her whole world. She threw a hysteric fit, screamed about me being an abomination and killing off her grandchildren… I mean, I was fifteen, right? In the evening my father called me into his study and explained to me that the 'fooling around', as he called it, had to end. God, I was so angry! I told him there and then that I was gay, that I wasn’t fooling around. But he just laughed it off and offered to take me to a brothel where the ladies would make a man of me. Of course, I refused. The next week I was packed off to another boarding school. Actually, it was more like a boot camp, all about military drill and discipline... they shouted at us a lot... And just PE and science. No arts, nothing. We had to wear uniforms, our hair was cut short. No private books or music or phones or anything were allowed, only the stuff kept in their library. They didn't even have Harry Potter because it allegedly glorified witchcraft. I…” Oliver’s voice cracks. He still sounds furious - and heartbroken. Elio somehow manages to find his elbow, sliding his hand down Oliver's forearm until he touches his hand, trying to entwine their fingers but Oliver's are clenched into a fist.

Elio strokes his knuckles until he feels the hand relax a little.

“That must have been fucking hard for you.”

He can hear Oliver inhale a little shakily. “It felt like a prison, like having been abandoned. There was no way out. We had no privacy at all. Phone calls had to be made under supervision and only once a week, our mail was monitored. I... withered. Mentally. It was sensory deprivation for me. No beauty, just endless repetition and boredom, wearing out our bodies and minds. When I came home during the holidays I tried to soak up as much art and beauty as I could. Though I wasn’t allowed to use one of the cars to go out on my own. Instead, my mother invited ‘appropriate young girls’, as she called them...” He laughs but doesn't sound amused. “It was so embarrassing, for everyone. Though over the next summer holidays, when I stayed with my grandparents in Florida once more, I became friends with Bridget. She was funny, smoked weed, played in a band. We went out together a few times, made out a bit. It wasn’t too bad. I provided pot and she covered for me when I wanted to go to a museum or... the beach, cruising. We were a good team so I presented her as my girlfriend until the end of high-school. My parents were so relieved that their intervention had worked and became a little lenient. But as soon as I got my diploma I emptied my bank account and fled to New York. I didn’t talk to my family for almost five years after.”

“Shit.” Elio's thumb circles Oliver's palm. His hand is trembling now under Elio's touch.

“No, it was fine.” Yet there's an edge to Oliver's voice. “I was free. I learned a lot. I had worked on my portfolio in secret with stuff Bridget sent me and that I had smuggled into school so I applied to colleges and got accepted at an art school. The next few years I waited tables, worked at a morgue, cleaned offices at night. After graduating I got into an exchange program and was even able to go to Milan. And all the while I had sex... with guys and girls.” Oliver sounds both triumphant and devastated. “It was then that I discovered what I liked. New York has so much to offer. And I felt starved. So I tried everything I came across. I never said no.”

“Never?” Elio fears what this might imply. His head is spinning. He'd thought Oliver was a somewhat unworldly academic, a bit shy and awkward... and now he learns that he has quite a colorful past.

“Never. I thought I had missed out on so much that I didn’t want to settle down with just one person. The first year I never went with the same man twice. I was an asshole. I did some pretty fucked up shit. I... wasn't always safe. I tried a lot of sick stuff... just to feel something.”

“What changed after the first year?”

“I got bored. Then I met Pete. He shared with Carol. Not only his apartment but me as well. I... kinda served them. Both. It wasn't like a master-slave thing but... they introduced me to their lifestyle. Taught me things. Let me try things out in a safe space. Did I like to be active or passive? Top or bottom? What kinks did it for me? I learned that there's more to all of this than just tying someone to the bedpost and shagging their brains out. It felt like the peak form of debauchery. When I was in bed with them I sometimes fantasized that my parents could see me. I think I need a beer myself now.”

Oliver takes a while to return.

“Well, and that’s how I discovered that I like both. That it wasn't so much the gender of a person but the prospects of the things we could do together that attracted me. I was looking for a certain type but not necessarily for specific genitals. Were they open, curious, did they like to submit in bed, could they surrender but still stay strong, independent? It's not easy to find someone like this so there wasn't anyone serious for a while. Until Rachel swiped me off my feet. And when I lost her I thought I had lost my one chance to happiness.”

Elio listens to Oliver drink, swallowing loudly in the silent room. His own stomach is clenching as his thoughts spin around and around in his head. Because Oliver has just revealed a lot.

“Did your family help you when she died?” Elio asks. After the accident he'd been able to fall back on a tightly knit network of relatives and friends of his parents. It had sometimes felt almost suffocating but he'd always known that people were there for him, would help him, that he wasn't alone. His aunt and uncle had supported his ambitions, had moved heaven and hell to get him into the best dance schools, the best programs. They'd always believed in him and his talent. He has no idea where he would be without them. So this is a natural thing for him – being loved, being cared for. But for Oliver this seems rather foreign.

“Well, they did what they always do – use their money. You know, I can only live in this apartment because my dad pays for it. It was his belated wedding present when he found out that Rachel desperately wanted to live in Manhattan. And, of course, the move gave him power over me again, subtly insinuating that I couldn't support us. But at least I could stay here with my memories of Rachel after she died.”

“Well, maybe it's the only way your parents know how to do it? Offering money. I'm sure they love you. Do you see each other?”

“Not much. We seldom speak either. My brothers have much more successful careers as lawyers and doctors and bankers so I'm still the black sheep of the family – and I'm not too keen to get that thrown at me at the dinner table. So...”

Elio shakes his head. “You know, it's hard for me to listen to this because... well, I would give almost anything to have a good fight with my parents again, maybe watch my mother throw some china before I leave the room, slamming the door. Wouldn't you... would you really not miss your parents if they died?”

“I'm not sure... I know it's been years and I should grow up, that I'm selfish, that they probably only wanted to do what they thought best for me but... I just can't get over what they did, how they treated me. Maybe in a few years but... Just imagining them meeting you... it would feel like polluting what we have.” Now it's Oliver grabbing his hand, squeezing it almost painfully.

Elio thinks about that, tries - and fails - to imaging a meeting with people who seem to deeply despise his and Oliver's lifestyle just because they are two men. “So you don't think they'll come around and accept you... us?”

Oliver makes a sound between a sigh and a snicker. “It's not... I won't hide you, if that's what you fear. I just don't want you to encounter them and their prejudices. I've been living my own life for so long I don't think I really need them. They don't matter.”

“That must be very lonely sometimes.” It slips out before Elio can really comprehend what he's saying. But Oliver doesn't seem angry as he pulls him close.

“It is. But I've learned to live with it. And...”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. I'm just glad I found you. I thought this was given only once, to find your special person... Oh god, too much? I'll shut up now.”

“I find that utterly romantic.” Elio starts to kiss Oliver's stubbly throat and then things get much more romantic quickly. They don't even make it into bed but Elio rides Oliver on the couch, pulling his nipples and chest hair while biting his shoulder until Oliver pulses inside the condom they somehow manage to put on and Elio shoots all over his stomach.

Of course, one of their beer bottles falls over and Elio steps into his by now cold Enchilada on his way to the bathroom, cursing as he hop son one feet, thanks to his training holding his balance, but eventually they're both snuggled up in bed.

“I want you to meet my family. In Italy.” Elio suddenly blurts out. “They are so many... and loud! And I'm actually not sure how their views on same-sex couples are but it might be interesting to find out.” He hears Oliver laugh against his neck, his breath warm and a little damp on his skin.

“Shouldn't we take it slow?”

“It was just a thought. Forget it.” Elio curls up on his side, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Hey, no, sorry. It's just... I'm not very good with these things. It's a bit overwhelming.” There's some sort of mild resistance in Oliver's tone.

Elio starts to ramble to gloss over the awkwardness. “Oh, they sure are. Overwhelming. Frightening even. My aunt Gina, for example. She's a fashion designer. She might literally rip off your clothes when she sees you and put you into one of her garish outfits. Not that I would mind but I was told they look atrocious. Or my cousin Federico, he's much older, an archaeologist who'll bore you to tears with his stories about his excavations in some god-forsaken place you never heard of...” He trails off, thinking about the upcoming summer, what's waiting for him in Italy. He suddenly doesn't want to face that alone.

Oliver strokes his side. “Hey, what brought this on? You inviting me to meet your family. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I mind but... It just seems a bit sudden, that's all. ”

“Sorry, it's just... I'm going to Italy for the summer and you said you missed it so I thought... well, I'm not sure what I thought.” Elio feels a little silly.

Oliver sighs, kissing his temple. “One step at a time, Elio, don't you think? Lets get tested on Friday, first.”

“Okay.” Elio knows Oliver is right but still... now that he has got this idea in his head it's very hard to forget about it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a bit sad - but these things had to be said to understand further developments.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver take an HIV test and subsequently enjoy their new freedom :)  
> Elio proves to be very flexible...  
> This is quite self-indulgent as it features some of my favorite personal kinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's the most stunning art by [Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed) at the end. Make sure you're sitting, well hydrated and have taken a deep breath before looking at it. We can't be made responsible for any casualties.  
> Also, what does it say about me that I had the original movie still for this picture saved on my laptop? Only good things, I suppose.

Their heart to heart from Tuesday night stays with Oliver all week until Friday afternoon. Did he just imagine that Elio had been a little withdrawn, subdued over the last few days? But maybe it's just his performance creeping nearer, combined with the stress of taking his first HIV test.

Oliver can still remember how it had been for him. He hadn't been afraid – just a little nervous. It had felt more like an initiation to the LGBT community. This would be his fate now from time to time, sitting in these bland, inoffensive waiting areas with other men – young and old – waiting for a diagnosis that could still mean a death sentence, yet not as instant as it had been some years ago.

The experience had sobered Oliver up somehow, making him a little less reckless during his encounters. He wonders what it will do to Elio?

Oliver arrives early at the test center in Midtown (a far cry from the rather improvised facility he had attended almost a decade ago) and takes a seat after checking in with the receptionist. When Elio walks in ten minutes later a few heads turn. He stops because his cane hits a row of chairs and Oliver comes quickly up to meet him.

“I'll help him fill in the forms if that's okay?” He asks the guy at reception after leading Elio over and listening to him giving his details.

But that seems to pose a bit of a problem. “Well, this is supposed to be confidential. If you'd told us before that your partner... has a condition... we could have prepared something.”

Oliver didn't even think about it. Elio's impairment has become kind of normal in their day to day routines. Which has made him careless, apparently.

He's not sure if he should apologize for being negligent or get angry over the receptionist's nitpicking when Elio intervenes. “It's okay. Really. We've no secrets.” At this the receptionist raises his eyebrows and Oliver feels himself blush. “Can't I grant Oliver permission or authorize him or something?”

“Usually, we'd have to bring in a third person to assist you with the paperwork... But if you're sure...?” Oliver sees the eyes of the nurse dart back and forth between them, doubt on his face, and his mood tips into anger territory.

But Elio assures him. “Yeah, I am. Let's just get it over with.”

“I have to warn you, some of these questions are quite personal-” The nurse is only doing his job but Oliver feels suddenly like a predator, as if he's spying on Elio's confidential details. And he doesn't like to feel this way.

“More personal than having his tongue up my ass?” Elio leans his elbows on the counter, a rude smirk on his face. Oliver just rolls his eyes. Yet the guy seems unimpressed.

“You do you, guys.”

He hands them the clipboards and sends them over into the waiting area.

“Did you have to? He's just a volunteer, following the rules.” Oliver hisses as they are seated side by side in beige plastic chairs.

“I just hate if when they make such a fuss.” Elio mutters.

“Yeah, well, I'm sure he just wants to make sure everybody is okay and no one is taken advantage off.”

“Then he should allow me to decide for myself.” Elio voice rises. The man opposite them looks up from the magazine he's been browsing, staring at them with blatant curiosity. Oliver gives him a wide smile before he hides his face behind his clipboard and starts to scan the questions.

“Calm down, okay. Lets just do this.” He mumbles.

“Fine by me.” Elio spits out, primly crossing his legs and sitting up ramrod straight. Oh, this is going just great.

They decide for Oliver to fill in both forms simultaneously, disclosing his answers to Elio as well to show him that this is not about prying on his secrets.

The first questions are harmless. Height, weight, age... then it asks what kind of medication, if any, is currently taken. That's how Oliver finds out that Elio is still on heavy pain medication sometimes and has taken Vicodin in the past. He also has been prescribed Xanax and Valium.

“After the accident. They thought I might have been depressed. I suffered from panic attacks. And I had trouble sleeping.” He says it nonchalant, almost too cavalier.

“Same for me, after Rachel died.” Oliver confesses.

Elio nods, biting his lip. Oliver briefly squeezes his hand.

They both have no previous history of STDs. When it comes to recreational drug use Oliver ticks the box for marijuana. Elio just shakes his head.

“What? Never? Not even one joint? Cookies? You can tell me.” Oliver can't believe it.

“I don't like the smell.” Elio sounds a little put out. “It makes me dizzy. Nguyen smokes sometimes. And then he eats everything we have in the fridge. I don't need that.” He strokes his concave belly.

“What about these clubs you go dancing to? No pills either?”

“You really think I would swallow something I was given by a stranger that I can't even see? Without being able to... well, I guess drugs just don't do it for me. I don't like to lose even more control than I already have.”

Oliver stores this information away to ponder more closely because he's made it his mission to provide Elio with the safety to let go.

“Poppers?” He tries.

“I don't even know what that is, Oliver.”

They move on to the next subject.

Yes, Elio did have blood transfusions. Many. Oliver quickly checks off the box. “If this is too much...”

“I'm okay.” But he's gone a little pale.

Gladly, they don't have to wait long after handing in their forms. The blood sample is quickly and efficiently taken by pricking their index fingers.

Then they return to the waiting room.

Oliver knows it will be negative. He knows. And yet... there's this funny feeling in his stomach. He takes Elio's hand again.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm... I should be, right? But what if... fuck, sorry.” Oliver puts his arm around his shoulder and tousles his hair until Elio swats his hand away. “Stop that.”

“Everything will be fine.”

It is.

They both get an envelope with their test results. Oliver first opens Elio's and reads out loud: “IV blood test... bla bla bla... antibodies... T-cell count... okay, here it comes: Negative.” before taking a look at his own. It's still a relief to know for sure, to see it printed black on white.

Elio stuffs the leaflet attached to his letter into the front pocket of his hoodie. His hands are shaking but he smiles.

“There's a barrier-free web site with info-” The doctor starts to explain but Elio is already getting up.

“Thank you.” Is all Oliver has time to tell her before he has to take Elio's arm and guide him outside.

“Coffee?” He asks.

“ _Coffee_? Are you serious, Oliver? Let's go home and fuck.”

“Yeah, or that...” Oliver grins all the way as they walk a few blocks to the nearest subway.

When they're on the train – someone had kindly offered Elio a seat and Oliver is now standing in front of him, looking down on a crown of dark, glossy curls – Elio suddenly asks: “You didn't lie to me, did you? Mine really says negative?”

What Elio is implying with this question hits Oliver like a punch. How much he has to trust others with every aspect of his life. It's heart-wrenching. Then he remembers something. “I didn't lie. But you can use that app thing with this, can't you? Have someone else read the results to you. For confirmation.”

“Yeah...”

“I think you should when we're home. I'll take a shower and you call one of these volunteers, okay?”

“You don't mind?”

“Of course I don't mind, Elio. I want you to feel safe, comfortable.”

When Oliver emerges from the bathroom Elio is already lying naked on the bed, with his phone in one hand and the letter in the other. His grin is outright sardonic.

“You were honest. So, I think that gives you the right to do really debauched things to me. Because I can trust you.” He drops both phone and paper and lies back. “How do you want me?”

Oliver's heartbeat speeds up but he feels surprisingly calm when he asks: “What's your safeword?”

“Peach.” Elio sighs.

“Don't forget to use it if you feel the need to do so.”

“Why would I feel the need to use it?” Elio stretches out, the muscles in his stomach rippling as his cock fills visibly.

“Because I'm going to tie you up.”

Oliver used to own ropes for when he and Rachel were in the mood for bondage. But he threw them away after the funeral. He simply had to get rid of them. He'd never use them on someone else. So now he needs to improvise.

He has two ties, one black, one with a garish pattern given to him as a joke; and two belts, both brown leather.

He uses the ties for Elio's wrist, binding them to the headboard of his bed.

“Now lets see how flexible you are.”

It turns out that Elio is very flexible. It's no effort at all to tie his ankles to his wrists, spreading him wide open, everything on display for Oliver to fondle, prod, tug...

Which he does, taking his time. He strokes Elio's cock until he can feel it pulse, then takes his hand away, leaving his erection twitching, dripping with precome. He pays attention to Elio's balls next, rolling, massaging, sucking them until Elio begs and curses and sobs.

Oliver gets the lube and moves lower.

One finger slides in easily, then two. Oliver can see the stretch of Elio's tight ring of muscle, pink at first, turning a deeper red with the friction. He's moaning, loudly, and almost screams when Oliver finds that spot inside him.

An hour later Elio is past words, sweaty all over, his head lolling from left to right, his body flushed blotchy crimson down to his navel. Oliver still hasn't made him come but drove him to the edge at least three times.

By now Elio's lips are bitten bloody and his nostrils flare as he tries to just breathe through yet another intermittent attempt of his body to find release.

“Oliver...” He croaks out, his voice hoarse from screams now dissolved into whimpers. His veined, weeping cock lies heavy in Oliver's palm while the index finger of his other hand just pads Elio's swollen hole, not pushing inside despite the enticing fluttering beneath his fingertip.

_“Pleasepleaseplease...”_ Elio mumbles as he tries to roll his hips to get more friction, or – even better - the penetration he craves.

“Shhhh, baby. You're doing fine. So fine. Here, feel me.” Oliver kneels up and brushes the wet head of his own hard, leaking cock against Elio's entrance. It's the first time he feels the velvety heat against his spongy head and it's almost too much – for both of them, apparently, because Elio groans, flexing his hands, balling them into fists as he realizes he can't touch, can't do anything.

Oliver wants nothing more than to push in, impale himself in Elio's body, feel that hot smoothness around him – but he holds back. He knows he can drive Elio a little further, until he fully loses himself.

“You want that?” He asks, by now rubbing his cock against Elio's balls, two hard marbles beneath taut skin.

Elio just nods, humming something.

“Tell me.”

It takes a moment for Elio to find his voice. “Want you... to fuck me. Please. Oliver. Want your cock. Deep. Inside me. Please.”

“You think you've earned that?”

Elio falls silent, his face contorting wit a mixture of fear and anticipation. Oliver gently massages the back of his strained thighs, the sparse hair there silky beneath his huge palms. Their size-difference never seizes to turn him on.

“Pro-probably.” It sounds like a sob. “Not yet.” Oliver quickly raises his eyes to Elio's face but there are no tears, just beads of sweat running down his temples. He leans over and kisses him, very soft, without tongue, just lips on lips.

“Just a little while longer, okay?”

Elio can only nod again.

By now his cock is almost purple and Oliver wonders if it will be over the moment he touches it again. So he strokes the inside of Elio's thighs, his firm buttocks, until Elio's breathing has evened out.

Then he uses both his thumbs to hold Elio wide open and spits inside him.

“Fuuuck!” Elio's hips buck up as best he can, his bound limbs flexing. Oliver has to steady him so he doesn't hurt himself, holding him firmly down. When his eyes drop back down between Elio's cheeks he sees his saliva seep out of his reddened hole.

“Oh god...” It's too much. He grabs the lube, slicks himself up and pushes in without a warning. But Elio's body is ready, opening up for him, almost sucking him inside.

_“Yesyesyes!”_ He chants.

It's the first time Oliver can truly feel Elio all around him, his body hugging him tight. It's slippery, but soft; warm, so warm. Giving but still providing just the right ammount of pressure; smooth friction.

After all this foreplay Oliver can't hold back. He fucks into him, hard and fast and as deep as possible, his hips slamming against Elio's ass. And Elio is only grunting, panting, taking it.

“Don't come... don't come.” Oliver gasps, just when he feels his own load spill inside Elio's tight passage, filling him up to the brim.

When he gazes up at him again through his post-orgasmic fog, this time Elio is crying but he's also smiling, looking a little mad. His cock is still hard and full, lying against his stomach, balls drawn up.

Oliver can't wait a moment longer. He pulls quickly out watching Elio's hole first gape, then flutter.

“Oliver...” He chokes.

“Yeah, baby, let me watch. Did you like me breeding you?”

“Ye-es.” Elio sighs. He seems suddenly strangely calm while Oliver watches his cum leak out of his still throbbing hole. It's thick, creamy-white – and a lot.

Oliver uses his index finger to push some back inside, feeling for Elio's prostate again.

He milks him dry over the next ten minutes, until Elio is past words, past moans, his body pliant, made for Oliver to use and play with. His beautiful cock is leaking white beads of cum all over his stomach that Oliver smears up to his chest, painting on his skin with the pearly fluid until Elio's face starts to show slight discomfort.

When he obviously becomes too sensitive Oliver quickly unties him and gathers his sticky body up in his arms.

“That was amazing, gorgeous...” He kisses every part of Elio's skin he can reach, regardless if it's covered sweat or spunk or salty tears. “How are you? How do you feel?”

Elio needs a moment before he murmurs: “As if... I'm... floating...”

“Yeah, that's it.” Oliver holds him some time longer before he gets up to fetch a lukewarm towel and some Arnica lotion. He cleans Elio up, rubbing the lotion into his slightly chafed wrists and ankles. Then he makes him drink some water.

He holds the bottle to Elio's lips while he takes tiny sips. 

“Now sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.”

Elio is out like a light a few seconds later. Oliver pulls the blanket up over both of them and asks the universe once again how he got so damn lucky.

 

\----------

https://twitter.com/chalamazed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's still a lot to come - both smut and art. Chalamazed and I had a chat one evening and exchanged... ideas :) Be prepared!
> 
> If you wanna chat I'm Isitandwonder on tumblr but you probably won't find me cause I'm naughty...


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schmoopy schmoop!

Elio feels the activities of last night the next day during training. As the end of term performance is drawing closer they now have to rehearse every day – even on the weekends. Elio is surprised that his muscles can still get sore but apparently being tied up strains parts of his body previously underused.

Interesting…

Oliver had been very attentive this morning, checking repeatedly in on him if he was okay until he had shut him up with some urgent kisses. Though he’d had to hurry – rehearsals start at nine this Saturday and will only end at five.

It’s a long day.

In the morning, Marzia is still asking questions full of innuendo, touching his wrists that still feel sensitive – but by midday even she seems too exhausted to keep going. Maybe she’s also bored by Elio’s evasive answers as he refuses to give her the juicy details she's obviously after.

At least they make considerable progress on the dance front. Elio is getting increasingly secure in his movements and can now work on the more expressive parts.

“Shall we grab a snack?” Marzia asks when they are finally released for the day.

“Uhm… I… Actually…” Elio stutters, dithering while packing up his shoes, towel and empty water bottle. Until a few weeks ago they often ended a long training day in a Thai noodle place, drinking so much green tea so that Elio had trouble sleeping despite his exhaustion. It had been fun, taking his mind off things. Sometimes fellow students had joined them which had made him feel less alone in the alien city.

But now there’s someone else in his life…

“Oh, I get it. _Oliver_.” Does Marzia sound annoyed? Elio’s not sure.

“Hey, I’m sorry… but it’s all so new and-“

“Elio, darling, don’t worry. It’s all fine. I’m happy for you.” She touches his arm, squeezes it briefly before hugging him. He knows he smells of sweat but so does she. He relaxes against her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “He’s good for you, I can tell.” Marzia pulls back a little. “He’s not too… forceful, though, is he?”

Elio feels his face heat. “What we do is quite consensual.”

“I hope so. Do you like it?”

“Ye-es…”

“Elio, no need to blush. I’m an adult as well, you know.” He hears her smile. “I think I would just like to meet him.”

“You _have_ met him. Twice.” Elio protests.

“Properly. Third time's the charm. So we can talk. For real this time. So I can deliver lines like ‘If you break his heart I'll break your legs’.

“He’s 6’5.” Elio can’t suppress a grin imagining Marzia fighting Oliver.

“Oh, but I did martial arts. I have a black belt, dear. There’s nothing I wouldn’t risk for you…”

Elio pulls her back into a hug, nuzzling her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She pats his back. “Why don’t you invite him to the performance? He’s never seen you dance, I suppose?”

“That’s a brilliant idea, Marzia.” It is. Oliver has shown him his art – as best as possible. In return, he should let Oliver into his world. Though, would he want to?

“Yes, I do have my moments.” She playfully pushes him backwards with her hands on his pectorals. “Now go and get ravaged. Watch out he doesn’t give you another hickey, though. You’re too old to parade those around in public.”

She slaps his ass as he walks past her towards the men’s changing room and he wiggles his hips in his tight leotard in answer. Her giggles accompany him until the door falls shut behind him.

 

“Hello, Oliver, I’m home!” Elio shouts after unlocking the apartment door, already toeing off his sneakers from his tired feet.

Did he really say home?

“Hey, baby…” He can’t dwell on this thought because Oliver is scooping him up in his arms and kisses him.

“Hmmm… what’s that?” Oliver tastes sweat. “Strawberries?” He licks into his mouth again just to make sure.

“Sorry, I know we said we’d do it together but I thought you must be knackered tonight so I went shopping alone today. I got some things I hope you like?”

“Well, strawberries are a good start. What else is there.” Happy curiosity spreads through Elio's body.

Oliver leads him into the kitchen.

“I got some baguettes from Maison Kayser. And madeleines. Different cheeses, fig mustard… a bottle of red wine, though I’m not sure you’d want to drink when you’re training?” Oliver sounds almost shy as he lists his haul. “I thought we could have a picnic?”

Elio pulls him closer by the hand he’s still holding. “That sounds lovely. Thank you.”

Oliver squeezes his fingers. “There’s a roof garden. Let me just fetch some blankets and cushions and pack everything up.”

Five minutes later they’re in the elevator, going up, Elio holding two baguettes and a woolen blanket in his arms.

He can hear voices when they step out on the roof. The air is still warm as it’s May already. Oliver says good evening to his neighbors but then guides Elio away from the chatter, turning a corner. They find a spot near a low brick-wall, still reflecting the heat from the sun. The place is sheltered from the mild breeze up here and Elio lies down as soon as Oliver tells him he’s spread out the blanket.

“Can I have a cushion?”

“Diva.” Oliver swats him over the head with a pillow Elio quickly grabs to stuff behind his head. He listens to Oliver putting down the food and then his head is lifted as Oliver sits down beside him and places it in his lap.

“That feels nice. You're better than a pillow.” Elio sighs. Then he sniffs the air. “Did you put… candles on?”

“Sure.”

“But… you’re aware that it’s kinda superfluous, right?”

“Elio.” Oliver sighs. “This is a romantic picnic. Candles are adamant. That you can’t see them doesn’t mean that you can’t enjoy the… idea, right?”

Elio has to laugh. “You’re incurable, Oliver.”

“So, what? I’ve been called worse.”

Elio reaches up until he can stroke Oliver’s face. “Thank you for being your unabashedly smoochy self.”

“Smoochy?” Oliver starts to tickle him but Elio feels too exhausted to put up a fight.

“Are you tired?” Oliver asks, now more stroking Elio’s belly than poking it.

“A little. Our trainer is really tough on us. No slacking.”

“As if you would.” Oliver laughs softly, carding his fingers through Elio’s curls. Until his stomach grumbles.

“Shit, so much for a romantic mood.” Elio cringes a little.

“Hey, it’s fine. You must be starving. Here…” Something sweet is pressed against Elio’s lips and he bites into it. Strawberry juice drips down his chin. Oliver licks it up.

“Hmmm…”

Elio giggles.

Over the next half hour, Oliver feeds him bread with strong cheese, then sticky madeleines afterwards. It’s delicious. But Elio avoids the wine and sticks to lemonade. He can’t afford a hang-over, not even a mild one. He needs to concentrate tomorrow.

“I guess there’s a lovely view from here?” He asks between bites.

“Hmmm. Yes. To your right, there’s the East River, and you can see all the way up to Greenpoint. On your left, you can see the sun setting over Manhattan. On a clear day even the tip of the Empire State Building is visible.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is.”

Oliver kisses him again, tasting of Bordeaux and sweat mustard. As it starts getting cold Oliver pulls him close and wraps another blanket around them.

“Are you still alright… with everything? This is not too much?”

Elio smiles, shakes his head. “Nooo…” He draws out the word. “Actually, I wanted to ask you if you’d like to come to my performance. It’s in two weeks… I could get you a ticket. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, though, I mean… I get it, ballet and contemporary dance are not for everyone so…”

“Shut up, Elio. Of course I’d love to see you dance.” Oliver kisses his temple.

“It’s not just me. I just have a tiny solo and then there's an ensemble piece… nothing too spectacular…”

“Don’t put yourself down again, baby.” Now the tip of his nose gets kissed. It feels both ridiculous and lovely.

Should he tell Oliver what's at stake for him with this performance? Better not... it might never come to fruition. As everything is going so well with them right now... he doesn't want to jeopardize that for something that very likely will never happen anyway. Let sleeping dogs lie...

So he just smiles and says: “Oh, and Marzia wants to to talk to you. She said something about Jiu-Jitsu so you better be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Not always.” Elio drops his voice. “You can be very strict, I have discovered.”

“Only if you want me to.” Oliver’s palm cups his cheek until Elio turns his head and bites a finger. Oliver’s groan makes him shiver.

“Are you cold? I think we should go down. You had a long day. And it’s getting dark.”

Back in the apartment, Elio just falls back onto the bed while Oliver puts the leftovers away. He’s already half asleep when the mattress dips next to him.

“Roll over.”

He does, too sleepy to protest. Oliver starts to divest him off his hoodie and t-shirt. It’s a bit of a struggle because Elio isn’t much helping but soon enough he’s naked down to the waist. Oliver kisses along his spine, moving lower.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to… go again tonight.” Elio mumbles into the bedspread, his cheek resting on his folded arms.

“That’s not what I had in mind.” Oliver moves away and seems to rummage in the drawer of the nightstand. “Ah, I knew I still had it.”

Elio kind of low-key expects to be attacked by some sex toy but then the smell of lavender fills the room.

“Lie down on your stomach, arms parallel to your body. I used to be good at this.”

He is. He truly is. Soon, Elio is moaning beneath Oliver’s huge hands kneading the sore muscles of his neck, back, shoulders and arms down to every single finger. It’s delicious. He melts into the mattress while Oliver pays attention to every kink he can find, from Elio’s hairline down to the small of his back.

Only when Elio is about to truly drift off does Oliver eventually stop.

“Hey, come on, let’s wipe you down with a towel, brush our teeth and go to bed.”

As Oliver hugs him from behind a few minutes later Elio suddenly realizes with a pang how happy he feels. This evening has both been ludicrously romantic and utterly domestic – and to his total surprise he doesn’t mind either.

 

As Elio lives in shared accommodation - which is not conducive to their increasingly refined lovemaking - they spend almost all their time together in Oliver’s apartment. Soon, Elio has a pile of clean dance clothes stashed in Oliver’s closet, and the kitchen cabinet holds an assorted range of granola bars. Oliver also makes sure there’s enough fresh fruit like apples, bananas and oranges in the fridge for Elio to grab in the morning when leaving for class.

This becomes so normal so quickly it could frighten Elio if he took the time to think about it – which he doesn’t, as his body is brought to its limits with excessive training. It comes to the point where even Marzia sounds worried.

“There are things like fatigue fractures. You need to relax a little, take a break.”

She might have a point because Elio’s plagued by headaches that get increasingly worse over the next week. His ankles play up sometimes and his knees hurt so much that he has to use Penetrex before rehearsals. Oliver’s massages only provide limited betterment.

Elio knows that it’s a combination of stress, anxiety, putting too much pressure on his body and concentrating too hard on steps and movements – but what can he do? He can’t just turn his brain off.

Giving in to those concerns would mean to accept that maybe his body isn’t as resilient as that of others. And that is out of the question. He’s no different from any other dancer! This has nothing to do with him being blind or long-term consequences of his accident.

Maybe he’s just weak? Doesn’t have what it takes? Not enough talent? Isn’t determined enough?

The only thing he can do about it is train, train, train. To improve and get better.

Until on Friday evening his contemporary dance teacher takes him aside.

“Elio, a word, please.”

“See you!” Marzia squeezes his shoulder and then the studio falls silent as everyone has left.

_‘Okay, that’s it. She’ll drop me from the performance. How great that I already got Oliver his ticket. Sorry, love, I won’t be on stage next weekend because apparently I’m too-‘_

“You’re too hard to yourself.” His teacher tells him with her soft Southern accent.

“What?”

“Elio, you’re doing fine. Exceptionally fine. I told you so before. I talked to your ballet trainer – she’s also full of praise. Just, relax. You can’t force it.”

“But, you know, after the freeze, when I have to spiral down while turning, I’m still not really hitting the mark and-“

“Elio, relax!” His teacher raises her voice, clapping her hands sharply together with a pang. “You're not a machine. This is still dance. And it’s modern dance. Just let it flow. Feel the music. Interpret what you feel. Show me what you feel. You don’t have to be perfect. But you have to give me everything you’ve got.”

“I am!” Elio wants to stomp his foot but his ankle hurts. He feels on the verge of crying.

“No, you’re trying to be flawless, impeccable. You don’t have to. But… be true. I want to see your pain, your joy, your feelings… it’s not about throwing your legs the highest.”

He has no idea what to say to that and just shakes his head.

“Elio, dear, your movements are precise. Your timing it accurate. But your dancing lacks soul. So, you’re off this weekend. I want you to contemplate what else this choreography needs from you.”

Hot anger rises inside him. He's worked too hard to be dismissed just like that. “You can’t do that! I need more training than everyone else to match their standard.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve come as far as you can regarding training and technique. Now it’s not only about what’s in here,” a cool fingertip is pressed to the middle of his forehead, “but in here.” Her other hand comes to rest over his heart.

He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. “You’re not taking me off the performance?” He asks eventually.

Now both her hands cup his face. “Of course not. You’re my best dancer. I’m so proud of you. Your chances for the Parisian scholarship are more than just fair. But I want you to take a step back and find the joy in what you’re doing again. Think about _why_ you dance – not how. See you on Monday, Elio.”

He waits until he hears the studio door fall shut behind her before he slowly takes up his bag and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you pick up on it? There might be another test on the horizon for these two...


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver makes one of Elio's fantasies come true to get him out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With art both by chalamazed and alexsweetpie! Thank you both so so much! I love it!!!

by alexsweetpie  
https://alexsweetpie.tumblr.com/post/186138426844/dear-isitandwonder-i-have-already-told-you-how#notes  
Ugly link because the nice ones seem to vanish...

\----------

Oliver's in the kitchen when he hears the apartment door slammed shut, followed by what he can only describe as the angry dropping of clothes and bags.

“Elio, 's that you?” He's roasting chicken breasts, turning them over in the pan and can't just leave them right now because they'll surely burn.

“Who else has got a key to your place?” Elio barks back, stomping into the living room, and then it sounds as if he collides with the dining table. “Fuck!”

Okayyyy.... “You're early.” Oliver says carefully. Having been married for a few years has attuned him to the intricacies of relationships. He knows it's not always rainbows and pixiedust. He's also learned that you have to give the other person space, especially when they're furious – as Elio evidently is.

“Yes. I am. So what?” Now Elio appears in the kitchen door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed in front of his chest. He's paler than usual but there are two bright red spots burning on his cheeks.

“Is everything alright? Are you ill?”

“What? Yes! No! Fuck it! Where's your scotch?”

“It's not even five in the afternoon.” Oliver replies peevishly. Elio doesn't drink much alcohol and usually never during the day – as far as Oliver knows, that is.

“Who cares?” But then he turns around and walks away. Oliver hears the bedroom door crash a few moments later.

He stares out the window, counts back from ten. Then he turns the hob off, wipes his hands on a tea towel, and slowly approaches the lion's den.

Elio is lying on the bed facing the window, curled up into a fetal position.

“Hey, babe, what's going on?” Oliver sits behind him and gently touches his shoulder.

“Go away.” Elio snarls.

“I won't.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not before you've told me what's bothering you.”

Elio snickers. “That was horrible.” 

“Agreed. But I'm a bit out of my depth here so I hope you'll make concessions?”

Elio just makes a muffled sound.

“Was that a yes?”

A shrug.

“Elio, what's going on? Can I do anything?”

Elio's head shakes from left to right, spreading his curls all over the duvet. Oliver starts to rake his fingers through the glossy black mane because that usually calms Elio down.

“Sure?”

Slowly, Elio seems to relax a little under his touch. He nods.

“Okay. But I just stay here for a while in case you change your mind.”

When Elio agrees it sounds almost like a purr.

After petting him for five minutes longer Elio's breathing has slowed down and the firm grip with which he'd hugged his shins has loosened up. His eyes are shut and Oliver is almost sure he's fallen asleep. Good. Let him rest. He'll just finish preparing dinner – just a green salad (yes, he caved), chicken breasts, rye bread with butter – and then he'll wake Elio up, maybe run him a bath...

Yet when he gets up Elio mumbles: “Where're you going?”

“I thought you were taking a nap...”

Elio sighs. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry with you?” Oliver sits back down again.

“Because of how I acted earlier... the door slamming... the shouting.”

“It wasn't that much shouting.”

“You think so?”

“It could have been worse.”

“Ugh...”

“Elio, couples fight. It's normal. And then they calm down and talk. How about we try this out next? Then they usually have make-up sex but that's not mandatory.”

“She told me to relax.” Elio flops around, now lying on his back, eyes on the ceiling but Oliver knows it's just an illusion.

“Who?”

“My dance trainer. She said I had it all here,” he points to his head “but now I had to feel it. So I should stop training and start putting my soul into it. Show her what's going on inside me when I dance.”

“Okay.” Oliver knows shit about dancing but that sounds sensible to him. He has never watched Elio perform but he's somehow pretty sure that he won't be anything short of exceptional. But he also knows that true art isn't created by the mind alone. It needs passion, heart, emotion too. “And what do you think about that?”

“I'm fucking terrified.” Elio's fist hits the mattress.

“Why?”

Elio takes moment to answer. “What if there's nothing here?” He puts his still clenched fist over his heart.

“I don't believe that's true.” Oliver gently touches Elio's knuckles, stroking them until he can entwine their fingers.

“Or... what if what I discover is too dark, too twisted, too personal... to unleash upon others?”

“I'm here, you know. For whatever you want to talk about.” Oliver brings their entwined hands to his lips and kisses Elio's palm.

“Thank you.” Elio smiles a little, blinks.

“Shall I run you a bath, baby? And then we can have dinner and watch some of those rom-coms you so like. I think they have _'Shakespeare in Love'_ on Netflix.” In the couple weeks they've been together Oliver has already discovered one of Elio's guilty pleasures: mindless, tooth-rotting romantic 80s and 90s movies. It makes him smile that Elio, who's often cynical and ironic, can totally loose himself in fluffy, predictable love triangles with a happy ending. His favorite movie is _'Dirty Dancing'_ , he'd confessed late one night. Oliver enjoys it even more now to call him 'baby'.

And he sometimes even fantasizes about Elio wearing a pink dress... but he somehow senses that tonight Elio will need something different, something more intense.

So he washes Elio's hair and scrubs his back, then lets him soak and dry off as he prepares the salad, stirs the dressing and cuts the bread. After their early dinner they cuddle on the sofa, watching/listening to Gwyneth Paltrow being wooed by Joseph Fiennes. Elio's just wearing jogging pants and one of Oliver's t-shirts and too large woolen socks and it's so cozy and domestic that Oliver is on the verge of happy crying.

“That was nice, thank you.” Elio stretches as the credits role.

“Yeah...” Oliver pulls him close again, softly kissing him. “It's still early. We could go out?”

“Dunno...” Elio is splayed all over Oliver's chest. He weighs next to nothing.

“Hey, it's a Friday night, you're nineteen-”

“I'm kinda tired...” Elio nuzzles his neck.

“No, no, no – it's too early for this stage in our affair. Come on, couch potato, put something nice on, we'll have a drink somewhere.”

“But we can have a drink here if you want to.” Elio whines. “I'm not even old enough-”

“You need to get out more, do something else than dance and sleep. Let's have some fun.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you have to.” Oliver pushes him up, stands and pulls a reluctant Elio behind him into the bedroom.

“Here, and here, and here.” He throws some clothes at him. When Elio feels the fabric his eyebrows shoot up.

“Seriously?”

“Come on, indulge me.”

Elio shakes his head but does Oliver the favor, who himself puts on a charcoal suit and a white dress shirt.

“Where're you taking me?” Elio asks in the elevator.

“It's not far, we can walk.” It's mild outside which is good because Elio is not really wearing much.

“I'm just asking because you're dressed to the nines and I must basically look like a rent boy.” Elio says on the sidewalk. Oliver has his arm around his shoulder and Elio touches the lapels of his jacket, slipping his hand inside to feel his starched shirt.

“That's on purpose.” Oliver grins as he sees understanding dawn on Elio's face.

“Oh...”

“Yep. Okay?”

“Yes.”

Oliver leads them to the nearest bar on First Avenue. It's nothing special, just a long dark room with wood paneled walls, a counter with bar stools and a few booths illuminated by dark-red neon lights. As it's Friday evening the place is kinda busy and as it's New York City no one pays the businessman Oliver must look like who drags a rather questionably dressed young boy inside any attention.

Oliver helps Elio on a bar stool and tells him to order something. “I need the loo. I'll be right back, okay?”

Elio nods.

In the gents, Oliver takes a long look into the mirror. He likes roleplay, but it's been a while. As he washes his hands he tries to get in the right frame of mind: firm, assertive, strict, successful, searching for some cheap distraction. Elio has to be able to rely on his performance tonight.

When he reemerges from the restrooms he walks a little taller than usual, his step a little wider. His eyes roam the place until they settle on the boy, sitting slightly hunched over at the bar, a coke in front of him, sipping it from a straw. He's wearing his black Doc Martens, almost skintight black jeans and the black crop top Oliver had so much fun with – and nothing else. Below the hem of the t-shirt at least two inches of his creamy skin are visible, his waist slim but toned. He looks delectable if rather tarty.

Oliver walks up to the bar, stands next to where Elio is seated. Close, but not too close.

“A scotch, please.” He orders.

Elio turns his head in his direction. Is he blushing? It's hard to tell in the gloomy light.

When Oliver's drink arrives a minute later, he takes a sip. Leans a little closer. “Come here often?”

Elio looks as if he's choking on his Coke but then gets a grip and answers: “Sometimes.” He takes his straw in his mouth and sucks, hollowing his cheeks. The little devil.

Oliver knocks back his drink and lets the silence linger a moment before asking: “Wanna go somewhere else?”

“Depends.” Elio has cast his eyes down and is playing with his straw, swirling it in the glass, the ice cubes rattling.

“On what?” 

“What's on offer.”

“You tell me.”

Elio grins down into his drink. “Are you propositioning me, Sir?” He sounds almost shocked.

Oliver has moved and is now right next to Elio, their elbows touching on the bar. “I guess I am.”

Elio bites his lips. “We can just go round the corner and I'll suck you off for twenty bucks or...” His tongue darts out, licking over his lower lip as he turns his face towards Oliver.

“Or?”

Elio shrugs again. “Depends how much you wanna spend, Mister.”

“How much is it to fuck your tight little ass?” Oliver is whispering because yes, there is music playing but the barman is already looking over. He signals for another scotch.

“Fifty. One hundred for bare.”

As his drink arrives Oliver downs it in one go, throws a few bills on the bar and takes Elio's arm. “Okay, lets go.”

They walk in silence back to his apartment. He'd thought about checking into a cheap hotel to make the scenario more real but fears unfamiliar surroundings on top of the roleplay might upset Elio. So they go back to Cooper Village, Elio hanging off his arm until Oliver wraps it around his waist to touch his naked flank.

Up in the apartment, Oliver takes Elio directly to the bedroom.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Fifty in advance.” Elio stretches out his hand.

Oliver grins but takes his wallet out and hands Elio a bill. “Now get on with it.”

Elio stuffs the money into the pocket of his jeans before he slowly pulls the crop top over his head, shaking out his curls afterwards. Next, he's toeing off his black boots and starts to unbutton his jeans. Oliver watches as he peels them off, revealing his long, slender legs. When he's just in his black boxer briefs he crawls onto the bed, sitting back on his calves in the middle of the mattress.

“I hope you're clean?” Oliver asks. He just takes off his jacket and folds it over the end of the bed, then rolls up his sleeves.

“Of course, Sir.” Elio says it as if it's a lie.

“One never knows with sluts like you.” Oliver sees the outline of Elio's cock fill. Okay, so he likes this, it hasn't gone too far yet.

“I swear I'm clean.” It sounds even more false.

“Then show me what you have for me.”

Elio bites his lower lip again as he kneels up to pull his boxers down, his half-hard cock springing free. He tugs a few times, brushing the pad of his thumb over the already wet slit and his dick stiffens further. “Like what you see?”

“I've seen better. I'm getting a drink. You can get yourself ready, finger yourself open. Here's lube.” Oliver takes it from the drawer of the nightstand and throws it in front of Elio. His hands search for it and when he finds it he uncaps the lid to coat his fingers.

Oliver turns around and goes into the kitchen where he pours himself another small scotch to calm his nerves.

When he comes back into the bedroom Elio is on all fours, ass in the air turned towards the door, two fingers knuckle-deep inside himself, fucking up into his hole furiously, spread wide open and making the most indecent sounds.

Oliver stops for a moment and looks before he swallows and says: “Enough. Don't want you to come from that.” He sets his glass down on the nightstand, his other hand touching Elio's right buttock, squeezing it hard.

Elio moans and removes his finger. His little hole is red, twitching, glistening with lube. Okay, he'll be fine.

Oliver just unzips his fly and doesn't bother to undress further. He'll have to take the trousers to the dry cleaners but that can't be helped. Spending these fifteen dollars are gonna be a small sacrifice.

He's been semi-hard since the bar and now just pulls his cock out through the slit of his boxers. His swollen head looks really big as he swipes it a few times over Elio's fluttering pucker and apparently, that's all it needs to make him fully hard.

“What's your safeword, slut?” He asks, his voice stern, serious, as he slaps Elio's anus with his thick cock, the obscene noise filling the silence before Elio answers.

“Peach.” 

Oliver puts his huge palm on the small of Elio's back. “You'll use it when it gets too much.” It's not a question.

“Yes.” Elio nods, his head hanging low between his arms.

Oliver keeps him in place with one hand, lining himself up with the other, slapping Elio's hole a few times more with his straining erection until he feels him tremble, only then pushing all the way in without a warning.

Elio gasps, freezes, clamps down around him.

“Oh... ouch. Argh...”

_'He has a safeword. He'll use it if it really hurts too much.'_ Oliver reminds himself. 'He wants this. He needs this.'

“Nghhhhh...” Elio is now biting the pillow, the muscles in his back and thighs flexing, straining as he tries to breathe but Oliver doesn't relent.

_'He NEEDS this.'_

Oliver doesn't wait for Elio's body to adjust. He just fucks him, fast, hard. Not quite brutal but the line blurs.

Oliver's never been with a real hooker. He likes consensual power exchange because both parties want it. Buying obedience doesn't do it for him.

So he has no idea how such an encounter would play out for real. He just guesses that men who use the services of professionals do it for their own pleasure and don't really care about the one providing it, maybe even knowing that they usually don't enjoy their line of work, that it's just a means to an end, pretending, a sham; for those men the real thrill comes from being the one who calls the shots because the other one is too poor and too desperate to refuse and so anything can be taken. Consent doesn't play into it.

But right now, they are faking the fake – and isn't a double negative a positive? Elio confessed that he wants to explore this dynamic and tonight seems to be the perfect opportunity.

Therefore, Oliver just chases his own orgasm, slamming into Elio's lean body, driving him towards the headboard with ruthless thrusts, almost ignoring the noises he makes (they are not real sounds of true agony so Oliver doesn't stop).

“God, you're tight. So tight Despite all the guys who've fucked you you're still so tight for me.” He presses out between gritted teeth and just as he fears he's been too forceful because Elio lets out a high-pitched, keening whine he feels his hole around his cock spasm while Elio's sweaty back arches up, his hands clawing at the sheets.

He's coming, Oliver realizes.

“Did you just soil the sheets, you stupid whore?” Oliver barks, pulling almost all the way out and Elio whimpers. Oliver looks down where they are joined, just the head of his cock still inside Elio's body, his stretched ring of muscle trying to clench as he gasps in shock and bliss.

“S-sorry.” Elio slurs.

Oliver's palm comes down on his ass-cheek, so hard it leaves a red imprint.

Elio howls. “Sorry!”

“Oh, you'll be sorry, slut.”

And then he fucks him until he sees stars, grabbing Elio's hips with his two hands and just plowing into him, so hard he might rip him apart.

Elio groans with sensitivity but Oliver doesn't relent until he spills inside him, quickly pulling out afterwards and shoving Elio's wrecked, sweaty body away as if disgusted, though he's almost blacking out.

He blinks, lids heavy, stares at Elio's shivering body, watching his cum leak out from his abused hole while trying to button up his fly, but he's too dazed to do it properly, so he just gets up on shaky legs and takes his wallet out of his jacket.

“Your other fifty. Now get out.” He throws the money at Elio, followed by his clothes, and turns to go to the bathroom. He washes his red, sweaty face, staring once again in a mirror. Now his hair is glued to his temples and his eyes look glassy.

What has he done? Was this too much?

When he returns to the bedroom Elio is already dressed, shoving the bills into the pockets of his jeans.

“I'll go then.” He limps a little as he makes for the bedroom door. But his body seems relaxed, lose, and there's a barely suppressed smile on his face.

“Okay... maybe... maybe we can repeat this, sometime.” Oliver stutters, almost breaking character.

“You know where to find me.” Elio feels for the door knob and watching his long fingers feel around Oliver can't keep it together any longer. He grabs his arm, spins him around and kisses him, long and deep, pressing him back against the door.

When they break apart Elio is panting. “I usually don't kiss. That costs extra-”

“Shut up. It's over.” Oliver dives back in and feels Elio grin against his mouth.

“Can I keep the money, though?” He asks later.

“Yeah, take it as unemployment benefit.”

“You sacking me forced me onto the street, selling myself to strangers, Professor Weizmann.” Elio giggles.

Oliver holds his face in his palms and looks at him intently. He's laughing, it's true, but he has to check anyway. “Are you okay? I meant it when I told you to safeword.”

“I know.” Elio replies. “I know. I'm okay. More than okay.”

“You want to shower?”

“Nah.” Elio leans against him. “Just take me to bed. I feel a bit... wobbly.”

Oliver laughs into his hair.

“And thank you. For doing this for me.” Elio whispers against Oliver's chest as he cradles his head.

“My pleasure.” They both giggle as they fall into bed.

 

\----------  
Elio's little ass by Chalamazed  
https://twitter.com/chalamazed


	23. Chapter Twenty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their blissful idyll gets disrupted as Oliver's past intrudes on them, setting new developments in motion.

On Saturday, Oliver takes him out for brunch. He doesn't want to go and grumbles all the way but then really enjoys it. It's nice to be out, being somewhere else than at Oliver's apartment or the rehearsal studio. Elio really hasn't explored much of New York City apart from going dancing. Marcus never took him anywhere, it was always clandestine meetings at their hotel, and the rest of his life evolves around Barnard's.

After brunch they visit Central Park, just lying in the grass in the already warm spring sun.

“Do you need sunscreen?” Oliver asks and Elio snorts.

“I grew up in Italy.”

That inspires Oliver to buy them some ice-cream. It's not as good as at home but it's tolerable. Elio gets pistachio while Oliver chooses vanilla.

It makes Elio giggle.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The warmth, the fresh air, the food make Elio lazy; almost accidentally he slips into a much more relaxed mode. He even dozes off as they rest on Sheep Meadow. All around him people are chattering, laughing, happy to idle in the sun. Some seem to play football or Frisbee. Others have a picnic.

Elio experiences a tranquility he's seldom able to appreciate.

“We can go out tonight, dancing, if you like.” Oliver says.

But Elio just shakes his head. “Nah, let's stay in.”

They go shopping for dinner on their way back to Oliver, just fresh pasta, tomatoes, basil, bread and a bottle of red wine.

That night they make love, slow and tender, Oliver fingering and sucking Elio for what feels like hours before he finally enters him. Elio is lying on his back, legs wrapped around Oliver's waist, enjoying the slow drag, the heat, their sweat and spit mixing as they kiss and kiss.

He wants them to be like this forever – domestic, intimate, quiet, together, doing mundane stuff, just living in the moment.

Being a couple.

Next morning he wakes early and is up, getting dressed and about to grab his dance bag when he remembers that he's forced to rest for yet another day. But as he's awake now anyway he doesn't want to go back to bed. Yesterday's calm has already somewhat worn off. So he wanders the apartment, taking the opportunity of Oliver still sleeping to explore.

His fingers glide over the smooth surface of the dining table. Wood. Is it oak? Four chairs around it, one on each side. They rarely use it anyway, mostly eating on the couch or in bed.

He turns left. There's the small hallway to his right. Then a book case. Many large books – presumably illustrated, about art. Maybe photography if they belonged to Rachel.

No knick-knacks. No picture frames. No plants.

It's as if Oliver is just passing through. In transit.

Elio touches something square with loads of buttons and controllers next. A stereo. Who even owns a stereo anymore in the days of Spotify and smartphones? In a rack below it he finds loads of CDs. Even vinyl. He needs to ask Oliver more about his music. Elio loves Hip Hop and loathes Jazz but maybe they could find some common ground with R n' B?

He turns again and there's the window sill to his right. As he reaches out with his left hand he finds the easel. The painting on it is covered with a cotton sheet.

He lifts it, his fingers brushing over the outline of Rachel's face, the strong brush strokes giving him an idea of long wavy hair, a round face, prominent eyebrows...

“Hey, you're awake. It's barely eight.” Oliver sounds still sleepy.

Elio drops his hand but it's too late to deny what he's been doing.

“Sorry, I didn't want to pry.”

Oliver laughs a little. “Snoop all you want. My two porn DVDs are hidden behind the Mies van der Rohe book on the top shelf.”

Elio has to grin. “Just two?”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Elio hears Oliver rummage in the kitchen and carefully follows the sound. He's getting better navigating Oliver's apartment with each day.

“Did I wake you?”

“Not really. But why are you dressed?”

Hot china touches Elio's hand.

“I forgot I was off duty, so to speak.”

Oliver hums, laughs some more, his hand brushing a curl back behind Elio's ear. “So, what do you want to do today? Instead of training.”

Elio just shrugs, sips his coffee.

“As we're up early and the weather is fine – we could go to Coney Island?”

“I've never been.”

“What? It's fun. And the sun might bring out more of your freckles?”

“Freckles? I don't have freckles.”

“Oh, you do. Here... and here... and here.” First it's just the pad of Oliver's finger on his nose and cheek but it's soon followed by his lips. “They're adorable.”

“Are they?”

“Let's see if you have more... somewhere else on your body.” Oliver takes the mug from his hand and leads him back into the bedroom where Elio's body undergoes a very thorough examination.

It's almost eleven when they eventually leave, a huge blanket and towels stuffed into Elio's backpack.

On Oliver's suggestion they skip the rides and head for Brighton Beach. Sitting there in the sun, his toes buried in the sand, listening to the breakers wash onto the shore suddenly reminds Elio of his summers in Italy, going swimming with his friends – before the accident. Now it's too dangerous for him. He would get lost in the water and probably drown.

As if Oliver can read his thoughts he says: “I guess the water's still too cold.” He wraps an arm around Elio's waist.

“I haven't brought swimming trunks anyway.” Elio rests his head on Oliver's shoulder.

“But maybe we can just wade in a bit? Get our feet wet.”

Elio shrieks when the icy water washes over his toes. Oliver holds his hand as they stroll along the waterline.

In the afternoon, they get bagels and buy pierogies for dinner. Elio falls asleep on the F train on their way home.

He's still drowsy and lies on the sofa while Oliver prepares their dinner. They eat on the couch, Oliver feeding Elio.

“You know, I've been thinking...” He starts when he's cleared the plates away. Elio knows he's being lazy, that he should probably help Oliver, but his body feels heavy with food and exhausted from the sun and his muscles simply won't cooperate. The sea air has tired him out. His face feels a little hot, too, maybe from sunburn, though Oliver had insisted he put on some sunscreen on the beach, no matter how much he likes Elio's freckles.

“What have you been thinking?” Elio snuggles into him, closing his eyes for just a moment.

“As you're mostly staying here... and have a key... maybe we should get some of your stuff over?”

“Some of my stuff's already here, Oliver.” Elio mumbles.

“Yeah, I mean, like the rest of your stuff, then, maybe?”

Elio grins against Oliver's stomach, wrapping an arm around his midriff. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Well, now that you don't have a job it's only sensible to share and safe money.”

“The rent is paid for my apartment till the end of the semester...”

“Yeah... okay...” Oliver sounds a little lost, as if tracking back.

“But it would be convenient, you know, not to have to go back and forth between two places...” Elio strokes slowly up and down Oliver's sides.

“Yeah, yeah, my thoughts precisely.” Oliver kisses the top of his head and switches on the TV, probably as a distraction. Elio is out like a light five minutes later.

He doesn't worry about moving in with Oliver. Somehow he's sure it will be fine.

They get his stuff on Monday evening, after he's been allowed to return to training. He actually feels better going through the movements. There's a new ease and lightness within him. He's been looking forward to the rehearsal and feels happily drained afterwards.

He doesn't own much, mostly clothes, and most of them dance gear. But he insists on taking his ballet barre with him.

“We can throw out the dining table.”

“I like the dining table.” Oliver protests.

“We barely use it.”

“We'll see about that.”

Elio pouts until he hears Chiara giggle.

“What?”

“You're so sweet together.” She tells him.

“We just had a fight.” Elio harrumphs.

Now both Chiara and Oliver laugh. “Yep, a very sweet one.”

She hugs him when he leaves. Bob and Nguyen follow.

“You have to throw a house-warming party.” They demand.

“After the performance.” Elio grins, shouldering his duffle bag.

“We'll see about _that_ , too.” Oliver sounds suddenly a little worried.

The ballet barre ends up in the living room. (Oliver puts the table and chairs on Ebay and they are gone the next evening, sold for $ 100).

After his weekend off Elio feels much better. He's discovered a flow he hadn't been aware of before. He starts to work with Marzia on expression and execution of the music over the week. His teacher is very pleased with him and his ideas.

On Tuesday, they go for noodles afterwards as Oliver has to work late. When he tells her that he moved to Peter Cooper Village Marzia sounds skeptical at first.

“It's just for a few weeks – at least right now. I'm going to Italy in July anyway.”

“So that's decided?”

Elio sighs. “I have to. There are things that need to be taken care off over there.”

“You don't sound very excited about it.”

“That's because I'm not.” Elio returns to slurping up his noodles and Marzia changes the subject back to dance.

He hasn't talked about Italy again with Oliver. Somehow, he doesn't dare to, fearing to suffer another rebuff. Which might be irrational as they are already living together but he remembers Oliver telling him to take one step at the time. And going to Italy together to deal with Elio's affairs might be a step too fast, too soon.

Yet he chews on it over the next couple days until he arrives at a decision. He'll cook, prepare a cozy evening, lulling Oliver in with Italian food and wine before casually mentioning his summer plans again... maybe Oliver's attitude has changed?

When Elio's on his way home on Thursday, laden with groceries, Oliver calls him from Cooper Union, sounding somewhat annoyed.

“Elio, it's me. I think I've forgotten my keys.”

Elio has to set one of his bags down, feeling for his own set of keys in his pocket. “I have mine. And I'll be home in twenty minutes.” He can't search for Oliver's keys but at least he can open the door to him when he rings.

“Great. I have to teach class but I should make it home at about nine.”

“Yeah, cool.” That will give him plenty of time to get dinner ready. Now that he can't set a table anymore he might as well serve the salmon in bed.

Oliver waits a beat before asking: “Any plans? You sound... secretive.”

“Secretive?” Elio giggles. “Well, it's a surprise.”

“Not ramen again! Please.” Oliver's voice is filled with dread.

“I'm a poor student, professor.”

“We've had it... what? Every day this week already.”

“So? It's noodles. It's quick. I thought you would understand, Mister 'I can't cook for shit'.”

Oliver laughs and hangs up.

In the elevator, a neighbor chats to him. It's a man this time, asking him if he's alright, tells him that he's seen him around (of course, Elio's disability always draws attention), and asks if he needs help. Elio isn't sure if he means with the shopping or in general. He's also not sure about his status here – is Oliver allowed to have a flatmate or to sub-rent? But then, Elio isn't his tenant... still, he's reluctant to tell people he now lives here – so he just denies politely and wishes a good evening when the lift reaches his floor.

Back at the apartment, Elio throws his sweaty leotard into the hamper before setting to work in the kitchen. First, he peels the potatoes and puts them in a pot on the stove. Then he cuts up the lettuce (yes, Oliver, salad again!) and squeezes the lemons for the dressing.

It takes him maybe a little longer than a sighted person but by now he's rather confident when moving in Oliver's – no, their – apartment. Especially in the kitchen. Oliver had shown him where he keeps what and they re-organized some drawers and cupboards so it would be easier for Elio to find things. Oliver has gone to a shop and printed out Braille labels saying 'mugs', 'plates', or 'pots & pans' and glued them to the doors and shelves. Elio isn't fluent enough in Braille to read whole books but he can manage single words.

He must have lost track of time while puttering about because when the salad is cut and washed and the salmon is sizzling in a pan there's a knock on the door. Can this already be Oliver? He seems early but maybe he hurried home, excited what Elio might have in store for him? Elio smiles and goes to open the door.

“Eager, are we, darling!” He shouts before remembering to wipe his hands on his jogging pants. Might even give Oliver something to look at, he thinks and grins as he sheds his t-shirt and pulls his bottoms low on his hips, exposing the waistband of his boxers before sauntering to open the door.

He pulls it open wide for Oliver to get an eye-full.

“Hi.” He says, lowering his voice while leaning his hip against the doorframe. “You're early.”

As he's met with silence he starts to grin. Did he just render Oliver speechless?

“Professor Weizmann?” He purrs. “I've been waiting for you...” He trails his right hand down his naked chest, his fingers stopping when they reach his waistband.

Then he freezes.

Because someone clears his throat. A man. Who doesn't sound like Oliver. The smell is also different, Elio realizes now. Woodsy, expensive aftershave, not Oliver's typical mixture of soap, turpentine and as of late Elio's lemon shampoo.

“And you are?” The voice is deep, definitively belonging to an older man. Elio feels panic rise inside him. He's standing half-naked in front of a stranger, the apartment door wide open. If he's lucky it's just someone from the building society. Will there be trouble? He has no proof he's allowed to be here.

If he's not so lucky he might get mugged on his doorstep.

“I asked you a question, young man?” There's a coldness in the voice now that makes Elio want to wrap his arms around himself, contempt even. Abhorrence? His thoughts are tumbling. Can he just pull the door shut or will this man put his feet in? Can Elio fight him?

He swallows, hopes to bide his time, thinks about slamming the door in the stranger's face and ringing Oliver... but when he feels for his phone in the pockets of his track suit bottoms he realizes it must still be in the kitchen where he set a timer on it for the potatoes.

He feels even more naked now, vulnerable. In his confused state he starts to ramble: “Sorry, if you're here for Oliver... Professor Weizmann... he's not in... he'll be back later though... maybe you could come back another time?” He's stammering. 

Shit, did he just admit to this stranger that he's alone in the apartment? God, Elio, just shut the fuck up!

Then his left hand finds his metro card in his trouser pocket, stating that he's visually impaired. If that guy is truly from the building society and about to raise trouble his handicap might help them.

But if this is some sort of robbery admitting that he can't see might be even worse than admitting that he's home alone...

Fuck! Shit!

But what sort of burglar would talk to him and ask for his name? Why does the intruder not just stick a knife into Elio or knock him down to raid the apartment?

He takes a deep breath. “Look, I'm... my name's Elio Perlman, see?” He gets out his ticket and holds it up. “I'm sure Professor Weizmann can explain... you really should come back later.” He hopes the man will take a look at him, his ticket, and will understand. “Okay?”

But when he tries to close the door he can't. The man seems to hold it open, pressing against it? Shit! Should he scream? But maybe it's just another neighbor, totally harmless? He would look totally ridiculous...

“Excuse me but...? Please, let go, sir.” He tries to stay calm and civilized but his voice is shaking.

Then the man's next words almost knock him off his feet. “I know exactly what you are. I should call the police on you, you little slut.”

Elio stands there poleaxed, his hand sliding off the doorknob. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. 

“Tell my son to ring me. I'm staying at my usual hotel.”

The pressure to the door recedes as heavy steps move away down the corridor.

Elio is frozen to the spot.

Fuck! What did just happen...? He remembers what Oliver had told him about his father, that he's a bigoted homophobe and sent him to some sort of military academy to straighten him out... and this man just discovered Elio lasciviously lounging around Oliver's apartment... Fuck! And he thinks Elio's a prostitute, that Oliver is paying for sex with boys...

He called Elio a slut! And he meant it.

Hot shame washes over him, followed by a black rage he can't suppress.

How dare he!?

After all this man has done to Oliver-

But his musings come to a grinding halt when a shrill noise starts blaring through the apartment. It's only now that Elio notices the burned smell... shit, the salmon!

He slams the door shut and makes his way back into the kitchen as fast as he can. Where's the fucking pan? It's hot when he finds it and he burns his fingers as he takes it off the hob, fumbling to switch it off. He curses as he feels around for a tea towel, keeping one hand on the pan handle, until he finds one next to the sink. More hot oil splashes on his fingers but he succeeds in throwing the towel over the burning salmon. He waits and hopes that he's managed to extinguish any flames, only now remembering that he should probably open the kitchen window as the apartment smells of charred fish and burned grease.

All the while, the fire alarm has been blaring. Elio's head feels as if it's got split open, his temples throbbing painfully with fury and fear...

… and then there's another knock.

“What?!” He yells, feeling his way forward, pan still in one hand. When he pulls the door open again, his whole body is trembling from both shock and a wrath he's never felt before. He's ready to attack that bastard, no matter that he's Oliver's dad.

“Elio, Jesus Christ, what's going on here?”

The pan drops with a loud bang and Elio smells fish and feels warm oil soak the cotton of his pants and then Oliver's arms are all around him, catching him, holding him as he starts to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise they will end up happy together but they'll also have to deal with some unpleasant stuff on their way...


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver confronts his father - and then it's time for Elio's big performance!

Oliver is still shaking with fury when he paces the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria the next morning. He's seen Elio off to college just before coming here. He'd insisted to go since it's the dress rehearsal, despite the events of last night.

Elio. He'd been trembling and crying when Oliver had arrived at the apartment yesterday evening. As soon as he'd stepped out of the elevator he'd known that something was terribly wrong, hearing the smoke alarm and seeing some of his neighbors poking their heads out of their doors.

And then he'd encountered Elio... frightened, confused, overwhelmed, panicking.

Fucking crying!

At first, he'd only been babbling, choking. Black smoke had been wafting through the apartment and the siren had been screaming at full volume.

Going cold with fear, Oliver had entangled himself from Elio long enough to push open the large window in the living room, then had taken the broom out of the cupboard in the kitchen and pressed its handle against the smoke alarm on the ceiling until it went silent. When he'd looked for Elio again he'd found him slumped down in the hallway, half-naked, his head in his hands, rocking back and forth, the big iron frying pan and its burned content scattered all over the wooden floor.

He'd cradled him, stroked his hair, his back. “It's okay, baby. It's alright. You're safe now. I've got you.” Only then had he become aware of Elio’s right hand and forearm, sprinkled with small burns, and his sweats soaked with oil. “Are you okay, baby?” He’d been on the verge of panic himself. Had Elio suffered injuries?

He’d lifted him up and had carried him over into the bathroom, sitting him down on the closed toilet lid. Elio had been trembling like a frightened little bird.

“Let me see…” Oliver had wrapped a wet towel around Elio’s hand and arm to cool it, then had pulled down his track suit bottoms. Thank god his legs had just been red but not burned. He’d thrown his sweats into the hamper though they were probably ruined. “Does it hurt?”

Elio had just shrugged but Oliver has rubbed some cooling ointment into his leg and arm nonetheless.

He'd been so grateful that nothing worse had happened than a kitchen fire, until Elio had whispered. “I think I made a horrible mistake... Please, forgive me, Oliver.”

“You just burned some food, babe-”

“No. I talked to your father.”

Oliver had gone totally still, inside and out. 

When Elio had finished telling him what had happened he had stormed off into the bedroom where he'd punched the wall.

In the deafening silence afterwards he'd heard Elio say: “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't you dare… Don’t you dare be sorry!”

Elio's meek voice had been the last straw for Oliver's dam to burst. Now it had been his turn to cry as he'd gone back into the bathroom and had knelt down at Elio’s feet, resting his head in his lap while trying to get his breathing back under control. 

Elio had stroked his hair, comforting him until he’d felt calm enough to go to bed.

They hadn’t made love that night but held each other instead, Oliver once again tearing up in the dark and Elio's embrace, allowing his tears to fall freely, letting it all out: his fear, his hate, his anger that he couldn't protect Elio from the reach of his fucked up family. Eventually he’d passed out from exhaustion, only to wake up with what had felt like a massive hang-over despite not having touched a drop.

Oliver's head is still pounding as he now waits for his father to come down from his room and meet him. His fury has been simmering all night and now flares up again; he’s balling his hands into fists, unable to sit still in one of those dainty chintz armchairs assembled in little groups all around the hotel lobby.

The lift pings and he sees his father approach – wearing a gray suit, pale blue tie, starched white shirt, his short, still full blond hair perfectly coiffed, exuding power, wealth and the self-righteousness of white, male America. Oliver has to restrain himself not to run up to him and punch him to wipe that condescending look off his face.

“Oliver.” His father's voice is crisp, cold. He doesn't bother with pleasantries. So Oliver doesn't either.

“How dare you come to my apartment and call Elio a slut?” He spits out. Some heads turn and people stare up at them from their newspapers or coffees.

“Your apartment?” His father sounds mildly amused, unfazed by his son's anger. “Last time I looked it was me who paid the rent. Anyway, let's go to the bar where we can be a little more private-“

Oliver feels the jab. It hurts even more because his father is right. “I don't care who hears this. You've no right to insult my boyfriend.”

“Your-... Oliver, are you out of your mind? Is that the grieve talking? I know you harbored such... inclinations in your youth but we all thought this was long over. Remember your late wife, for god’s sake!”

“Don’t bring Rachel into this! She understood. She knew about my… inclinations. Dad, I'm simply bisexual. It's no big deal-”

That's when his father slaps him. In the middle of the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria for all of haute New York City to see this distinguished businessman slaps his 26 year old son as if he’s a schoolboy. “How dare you say such things out loud.” His father hisses as Oliver touches his face, the surprise holding the shock and pain at bay. His father seems to misinterpret his silence. “You should be ashamed to talk like that.”

Oliver is swallowing the tears that burn in his eyes. He won’t give his dad the satisfaction to cry. He’s not a little boy anymore. His cheek stings – but what’s worse is the humiliation. He can suddenly understand how Elio must have felt last night.

Elio...

“Do to me whatever you want.” He says, stepping up to his father, towering over him. “Call me whatever you want. But if you ever insult Elio again-”

“Oliver, listen, that boy is retarded, a cripple. He's just using you, your compassion, to get to your family's money. He's sick, on body and soul, infesting you with his evil sinful nature like cancer.”

Oliver takes a step back. He can't listen to this any longer. Why did he ever think reconciliation with his family was a possibility worth to pursue? 

As he turns to just walk away his father grabs his arm. “So that's it? Again? You're running away?”

“Well, the first time it was _you_ who sent me away to that godforsaken place.” Oliver swallows, his blood turning to ice in his veins.

“To help you, Oliver. And it worked. In the end you found Rachel-”

“And up till then I fucked men, dad. Many, many men.” He feels nothing as his father's face contorts. Is it disgust he sees there, disappointment? Rejection? Whatever – he doesn’t care any longer. He's not sixteen anymore – he’s 26 and had enough time to grow numb to all of this. During those ten years he found out what's really important. He'll rather lose his family than his integrity – and the person he loves.

His father seems to sense that something fundamental has changed because when he drones on he sounds almost pleading underneath his harsh words: “Are you proud of that? Okay, let’s see where your pride gets you when you're homeless. I'll stop paying for your little love nest from next month. Your pathetic job will have to pay for your toy boy from now. But I'm sure he'll leave anyway when the well dries up. Just, don't come running back home and beg me or your mother for support. We're done with you. You're a disgrace to our family.”

Oliver knows he should be angry, should shout and maybe even shove his father, attack him physically like he did just minutes ago. That’s what real men do, right? Fight.

But a deadly calm has settled over Oliver. He was too young at sixteen to understand, but ten years later he finally gets it – his father will never accept him. For whatever reason he's unable to see past his prejudices. And there's absolutely nothing Oliver can do to change him. Because his father's love is conditional and Oliver simply can’t meet his expectations. And never will.

But, unlike when he was sixteen and his father held his livelihood in his hands – now he can stand up to him - because he realized who he really is - and move on. He's wasted ten years of his life on some sort of reconciliation process that can never happen.

That bridge burned down long ago.

So he just nods. “Okay. I'll move out at the end of June then. Good-bye, dad.” Oliver shrugs his father’s hand off and walks away, not once turning to look back.

Only when he's sitting in his studio at Cooper Union thirty minutes later do the full consequences of what just happened sink in. What worries Oliver the most is not the final rift with his family – it's realizing that he won't be able to pay for his apartment any longer from next month. 

It’s true, he earns good money as a Professor at Cooper Union. But when Rachel fell ill he reduced his hours until he stopped working altogether. And her treatment did cost thousands. Literally. As a freelance photographer she had never really bothered with insurance, only covering her basic needs. That came back to bite them. Oliver had first spent all his meager savings and when they’d been gone he had to borrow money. To his father’s displeasure, Oliver has never had a head for figures to begin with – and in these dire times he hadn’t thought twice before signing whatever had been necessary to raise some funds.

He couldn’t care less how high the interest rates were back then when Rachel had needed a new round of medication to stay alive and keep the pain bearable. He had done what he had to do. You don’t bargain when it’s about life or death of someone you love.

After the funeral, Oliver’s financial situation had been catastrophic.

Letting it all slide after Rachel’s death didn’t improve it.

So now, he’s in dept. No, that’s a euphemism. He’s broke, as most of his salary goes directly into some credit schemes, paying back money he owes, leaving him with just enough to pay his bills and buy food.

And his rent is $ 3500 a month.

There’s no way he’ll be able to afford that without his father’s support.

Of course, all this had to implode just after he asked Elio to move in with him!

It's not just he who will be homeless now – it's Elio as well. Oliver is responsible for him. He wants to provide Elio with a safe, secure environment so he can concentrate on dance.

And isn't it humiliating that a grown-ass man like Oliver still relies on his dad to pay for his living? Doubly so when those payments are withdrawn, showing all the world just how dependent he is? He wants to be so mature and independent and can't even afford his own place! It’s quite pathetic…

He'll have to come up with an alternative, a plan that will work. And quick.

Okay, maybe Elio can get back into his dorm? But Oliver can't move in with him there. So they'll have to live apart again... just when they had both decided to take their relationship a step further. What will Elio think when Oliver can't afford his own place anymore where they can be together, in peace, undisturbed? Could Elio still respect him?

He has only a couple weeks to figure something out. Worse, though, Oliver doesn’t know a lot of people he can ask for help to find a place to stay in Manhattan; after Rachel’s death he abandoned most of their friends because he couldn’t deal with their condolences, their compassionate looks, their sympathy. He turned down all invitations to dinner, didn’t return calls. So, after a while, most stopped to bother. And Oliver was fine with it. All he needed back then was a bottle and some pills.

And when he returned from London he was too ashamed of what had happened, of his behavior, to contact his friends again. He just hoped they would forget him.

It seems to have worked. Now, his phone hardly rings and the only people he talks to apart from Elio are his colleagues and the odd neighbor he meets in the lift.

He had been fine with that. But now, in a moment of despair, he wishes he’d cared more, kept in touch.

Well, he’ll have to pull himself up by his own bootstraps.

And didn't Elio tell him he'll be going to Italy for a few weeks during summer? Perfect. That will buy Oliver more time to arrange for something.

As for now, he'll keep quiet about the encounter with his father – and its consequences. Elio had been upset enough last night. He doesn't need to know that they fought today. Remembering how Elio apologized over and over last night still makes Oliver nauseous. He'd thought it had been his fault and no matter how sternly Oliver had assured him that he wasn't to blame nothing had seemed to convince him otherwise.

Elio doesn't need to become a victim of Oliver's family fall-out just one day before his big performance tomorrow. And afterwards he should prepare his trip back home, unperturbed by flat hunting. This is Oliver’s mess and he’ll deal with it like an adult. He’ll solve their problem and present Elio with the solution. No need to get him worried and trouble him with these mundane banalities in the meantime.

He'll sort this. Tomorrow night is all that matters.

 

Elio had assured him that he wouldn't need to wear a suit or anything formal but as Oliver enters the lobby of the Lincoln Center Theater he vows to never trust a blind man again when it comes to dress code questions.

At least he's wearing black jeans and a pale blue dress shirt but he still feels totally underdressed. Men are wearing tuxedos, women are parading around in elegant robes yet he has to admit the overall atmosphere is somewhat relaxed and casual.

Just the opposite of Elio this morning. After his third mental breakdown because he couldn’t find the right dance shoes he'd locked himself in the bathroom for half an hour and only opened the door after Oliver had threatened to kick it down.

“I'm not going, forget it. I cancel with Marzia. Maybe you can call in sick for me-”

“Elio, stop this. You trained for this performance the whole year...”

“But I'm telling you, I'm not good enough, this was all a mistake! God, won’t you _listen_!” He'd been sitting on the closed toilet lid again, knees pulled up to his chest, furiously raking his hands through his hair.

“Elio, darling, you'll be great. Let’s just have breakfast-”

“You think I can _eat_ right now?”

They'd settled for orange juice but Oliver smuggled his favorite granola bar into Elio's dance bag before kissing him good-bye.

“I'll check with Marzia. If you haven't arrived at the theater in 30 minutes I'll report you missing with the NYPD.”

“An adult has to be missing for twenty-four hours before action is taken.” Elio deadpanned.

“Believe me, I can be very convincing.”

“I know...” Elio had snuggled close.

“Forget it. You can't bribe me with sex. Not today. Now go and shine. Show them!”

Marzia had called twenty minutes later to tell him that Elio had arrived.

Now, Oliver skips a trip to the bar and instead of a drink gets a program so he’ll know when to expect Elio’s appearance on stage. His hands are sweating, sticking to the paper, and he feels butterflies in his stomach. If he's already nervous, how bad might Elio's stage fright be?

When he settles into his seat and opens the leaflet he sees that _‘Le Corsair’_ is the last piece before interval. That means he has time to prepare.

It occurs to him then that he never saw Elio dance. Though, since he moved in, Oliver encountered him at the barre more than once in the evenings. Though the biggest shock had been coming home one night to find Elio leaning in the doorframe to the bedroom – only not as people would normally do, but in some kind of standing split, his left foot on the ground while his right leg had been pressed high up against the door jamb.

“Jesus Christ, Elio, what are you doing?” He'd stood frozen to the spot, maybe also because Elio had only worn black boxer briefs and every stringy muscle in his lean body had been flexed.

“Stretching.”

“That can't be comfortable.”

“It's not about being comfortable. It's about being flexible.”

“Still... could you...”

As an answer, Elio had elegantly dipped his upper body, his hands brushing the floor before lowering his right leg.

“I thought you liked my flexibility?”

That night, Oliver had regretted selling his dining table. In the end, he'd fucked Elio against the living room wall, his long legs wrapped around Oliver's waist.

Lost in these memories Oliver is kind of surprised when the lights go down and the curtain rises.

He watches different dance classes and ensemble pieces, but the only one he recognizes are four girls in white fluffy dresses performing something he vaguely remembers from _‘Swan Lake’_.

It's... nice. To his unschooled eye, all dancers look incredibly talented. He couldn't do one single move they are doing up there on stage. He might tear a muscle just trying.

The crowd is friendly, the applause loud and appreciative.

Then the stage empties and the lights go out, only one spot throwing a bright circle onto the pale yellow background. Does Oliver only imagine it or are people suddenly sitting on the edge of their seats, leaning forward to get a good look?

When the music starts there's suddenly movement. Elio kind of catapults from the right wing as if he's flying, his legs thrown wide, at least eight feet in the air. He jumps and swirls in time with the music and it's so precise, yet looks so effortless, almost weightless, as if gravity doesn't exist for him; only his naked torso glistening with sweat reveals how demanding and strenuous his movements are.

He's just wearing bright red tights and the lean muscles of his long legs flex and stretch beneath the spandex, making Oliver squirm in his seat.

He doesn't fall, doesn't even stumble; there's no sign of insecurity. But it's not only the perfect execution of complicated movements, it's also Elio's presence, the way his expression changes, how he throws his head back, grins, bends his arms... wild, free, untamed, alluring. He's in his element up there, becoming one with the music, and it looks so natural that Oliver suddenly has difficulties to image that same person lounging in sweatpants and woolen socks on his couch.

When it's over, Elio is lying in a pile on the floor, his sweaty back heaving as he draws breath. The crowd is silent for a moment, then erupts into what Oliver can only describe as a boisterous roar. So it wasn't only him that felt they’d been watching something special, something unique.

When Elio slowly gets up and bows with an elegant dip of his upper body the cheers get even louder until he extends his arm in the direction of the right wing, beckoning Marzia on stage. People continue clapping for her as well, though most seem at a loss what this is all about until she gently takes Elio's arm and leads him off stage, his careful movements suddenly making it plain to everyone that he can't see.

It's then when people jump to their feet and are still clapping when the house lights come on. Oliver feels a lump in his throat and has to go to the toilet to splash cold water onto his face.

Mingling in the lobby, _'that blind dancer... what's his name?'_ is the talk of the crowd. Everyone is full of awe and admiration. Oliver feels so proud – though he knows Elio would loath it, being reduced to his disability like a curiosity.

But, fuck it, people loved him even before they knew what he had to overcome to go out there and pull off this killer performance!

Oliver is still dazed during the second half of the program. Now the pieces are more modern, the movements angular, the choreographies exact and less playful but they somehow seem more accessible – at least to Oliver. Maybe it’s because the music is not classical anymore, but jazzy; sometimes it’s just mere sounds and noises.

This time, Elio is performing half-way through, a short piece in which he agonizingly slow crawls, rolls, wriggles, meanders and slides over the stage, sometimes twitching, bending his body into shapes Oliver can't wrap his head around. It's somewhat unsettling yet mesmerizing.

When he's finished, the audience is on their feet again and he's allowed to bow one, two, three times before Marzia again leads him into the wings.

The performance ends with a huge ensemble piece of dancers wearing white masks and black leotards, moving like a covey of birds. One of them must be Elio but Oliver can't tell which one as they float across the stage.

Though that mystery is solved at the end. The dancers take off their masks under the thunderous applause of the crowd. Elio is standing in the middle of the front line, right next to an elderly woman, her hair pulled back into a tight chignon. His teacher?

When people start throwing bouquets of flowers at the dancers Oliver regrets not bringing some himself. He'll get Elio a dozen red roses tomorrow.

Suddenly, two official looking men in black suits walk onto the stage and the cheers die down. They wave into the auditorium, then ask five performers to step forward. Elio is one of them. Each name is met with applause but for him it's the most vehement. Yet his head his hanging down and he's nervously fidgeting with the white mask he's still holding as if he has to suppress the urge to put it back on and hide.

It turns out the men are giving out some awards. A female dancer wins best young newcomer, a slender Asian boy is given the Baryshnikov medal.

Then it's only Elio and two other girls; they grab each other's hands and he pulls them to his sides so they are standing close as one of the officials announces that the winner of the _Grand Prix de Danse_ this year is... Elio Perlman.

The crowd whoops and cheers. The two girls hug Elio tight, one kissing his cheek. The whole ensemble is applauding. Marzia comes running from the wings and grabs Elio's shoulders, shaking him, pressing her forehead against his, intensely whispering to him. The officials pad his back and then even his stern looking teacher smiles and pulls him into an embrace.

Meanwhile, the officials turn and address the auditorium, informing them that this prize comprises a fully paid one year tuition grant for the _Ecole de Danse de l'Opera_ – in Paris.

Oliver is staring at Elio, who simply looks paralyzed with shock. He only manages to bow once, deep, remaining like this for several seconds until Marzia leads him off stage, her free arm loaded with flowers.

Oliver is up from his seat even before the lights come on, apologizing for shoving and pushing his way out of his row. He has to get backstage, now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Paris... for a whole year...


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, it's a lot happening here... Elio prepares for his departure and as his anxiety kicks in he needs Oliver's firm hand to steady him.
> 
> And we have again amazing art by Chalamazed! Follow them on Twitter!  
> https://twitter.com/chalamazed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, the chapter count keeps changing :) I simply can't let go of them. Any time I think 'Well, now is a good point to get to the end...' a new idea pops into my head. I had originally planned to end this story with a jump 1 or 5 years into the future but now I might actually write chapters that will narrate those in between times and stages of their relationship. What do you think?

Elio knows that he should probably put something on as he’s still just in a black leotard, sweaty all over; also, his whole body must hurt from the exertion of the performance. But all he can feel is shocked bliss, the adrenaline washing everything else away: his nervousness, the exhaustion, the ache in his feet, ankles, legs and back… because he did it.

He fucking did it!

He’s on top of the world and nothing will spoil his moment of triumph.

He still can hear the house cheer, smell the flowers Marzia is carrying as his fellow dancers hug him and slap his shoulders backstage. It’s like an anthill, everyone scurrying around in the limited space in the wings with him at the center of attention.

He wishes his parents could see him now.

He’ll call his aunt and uncle sometime tomorrow, now it’s too late in Italy. That way they can also finalize details of his visit to the villa.

And afterwards he’s going to Paris. Motherfucking Paris! Can you believe that?! Attending the training center of one of the best ballet companies in the world. It’s a dream come true.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?” He suddenly asks Marzia, who’s still standing by his side. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“We’ll see about that, Elio. For tonight, just enjoy it, okay.” She hugs him again, squashing what feels like a small flower shop between them. She only lets go of him when he hears champagne bottles pop and turns his head in the direction of the noise. He actually would like some water first but can’t remember where he left his bottle so he takes the glass pressed into his hand.

“Elio, we’re so proud of you and all you have achieved. I think I speak for every student here when I say that you deserved to win this scholarship.” His ballet teacher sounds as if she has tears in her eyes. The flock of dancers around him applaud once more.

“Thank you so much. All of you!” Elio raises his glass, takes a sip. The alcohol goes straight to his head. “Marzia, can you please share out the flowers?”

He hears mumbled ‘thank yous’ as the corps slowly dissolves, the dancers wandering off to get dressed and meet their families and friends.

“There’s Oliver.” Marzia tells him. “I leave you two alone… to celebrate.” He’s thankful when she drapes what feels like his hoodie over his shoulders before she retreats, taking the smell of roses with her.

It’s replaced by the scent of Oliver’s aftershave suddenly enveloping him before he’s swept off the floor and swirled around in Oliver’s arms.

“Elio! Oh my god! You were divine! Breathtaking! Amazing!”

“Oliver. Please, let me down.” Elio is laughing, clutching to Oliver’s shoulders, having dropped his plastic champagne flute at his assault.

“Babe, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Oliver stops spinning and gently puts Elio back on the ground.

“Thank you.” Elio whispers against his chest, suddenly overwhelmed.

“Hey, you’re shaking. Elio, you okay?”

“I… I don’t know…” He snivels, his face both hot and wet.

“Hey, come on, sit down. I’ll find you some water.” Oliver guides him to what feels like a metal crate, lowering him onto it. It only takes him a minute before he returns with a bottle of mineral water. “Here.”

Elio unscrews the cap and greedily gulps it down.

“Better?”

“Yeah… sorry.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“You should get dressed, you’re still shivering. Where’s your dressing room?”

“It’s probably just nerves…”

“Whatever. You should change and I’ll find you a celebratory Mars bar.” Oliver must have been kneeling in front of him and now tips his chin up before tenderly kissing him on the lips. “Okay?”

Elio just nods.

Oliver takes him deeper into the backstage area until they encounter Marzia. She and Oliver greet each other warmly and then she takes Elio to the men’s dressing room after telling Oliver where to find a vending machine selling sweets.

“He knew about Paris, right? That it was on the table?” She asks as she leads Elio slowly along so as not to bump into other dancers in the small corridor.

“I think I must’ve mentioned it…” Elio says evasively.

“You think?” Marzia suddenly stops. “Elio, seriously?”

“I didn’t want to jinx it.” It’s the truth. Talking about winning would have felt like a bad omen.

“Did he say something about it yet?” Marzia asks after a moment. She’s a dancer herself; if she understands anything it’s superstitions.

“No. He was just so happy for me. He said the nicest things.”

“Get dressed. I’ll tell him where to find you. And then, Elio, please, be honest with him. He deserves it. The way he looks at you… well, shit, I wished I could find someone who looks at me like Oliver looks at you.”

That doesn’t exactly help Elio to feel better as he comes down from his high. But he knows that Marzia is right. They have to talk about Paris.

In the changing room, however, his fellow dancers fawn all over him – some with genuine kindness, others with barely disguised envy. Eventually, he has a chance to get dressed but as he slings his bag over his shoulder his teacher approaches him.

“We'll finalize details and dates next week, Elio.” She hugs him again. “You deserve this. I'm so proud of you. I always knew you had it in you.” The words are only meant for him, spoken directly into his ear. “Now, celebrate!” She pats him on the back, shoving him forward.

The place is crawling with people. Everyone seems to have friends and parents over, congratulating them. Elio feels a pang of envy inside his chest at the excited chatter.

He hesitates a moment before he hears Oliver call out. “Elio, over here!”

Sounds like two o'clock but Elio gets his cane out anyway. He doesn't want to fracture his ankle when tripping over someone else's bag – now that he'll go to Paris.

“And your posse is here as well.” There's laughter in Oliver's voice.

“My what? Ugh...” Suddenly, people are screaming around him. He smells Chiara's perfume and hears Bob's smooth baritone, drowned out by Nguyen's high-pitched giggles.

“Elio, amore! Paris! You're going to Paris! Take me with you!” Chiara's kissing him on both cheeks, almost suffocating him in her hug.

“I... ugh... help! Air! Seriously, guys, you came?!” He's overwhelmed again. Seems to become a constant feature of the night.

“Not to the performance.” Bob explains. “But Marzia told us when you'd be finished so we thought we kidnap you to celebrate.”

“But you didn't know I would win.” Elio is still flummoxed.

“Well, whatever. We'd celebrate with you anyway, man!”

Elio briefly wonders if Oliver will be okay with this, Marzia's words still ringing in his ears, but his worries are squashed as Oliver simply declares: “First round's on me!”

“Ah, now, that's a man after my taste!” Nguyen ends up on Oliver's left arm while Elio occupies his right, happily munching on the promised Mars bar. Marzia and Chiara take Bob between them and then they’re off, ready to party.

They hit a few bars first – where Oliver and Marzia do the ordering and the staff doesn't dare to card their disabled company – until everyone runs out of cash and Oliver offers to relocate to their place. Their place.

Is it the alcohol or something else that makes Elio feel all warm and mushy at these two words?

They somehow pile into an Uber and go to Peter Cooper village where they order pizza and drink everything Elio and Oliver have stocked, down to the Amaretto Elio needs for Tiramisu. At some point, there's dancing, and Elio worries about the neighbors but Oliver says it's fine and even turns up the volume.

Only when Elio feels like passing out on the couch does Oliver call an end to the impromptu festivities and gets their guests another Uber.

Elio hears him tidying up after everyone has left and thinks he should probably help – it were his friends Oliver has hosted – but he's weighed down by leaden tiredness.

“Can't we do that tomorrow? Let’s go to bed.” He whines.

“You go. Let me just...”

Oliver sounds knackered himself, his voice a little rough and thin.

But Elio doesn't move. He hears Oliver puttering around in the kitchen, takes a deep breath and says: “I should have told you. About Paris.”

The rattling stops. The following silence lingers.

“I'm sorry I didn't. I should have told you that it was a possibility. I-”

“Elio, please, no need to apologize. I'm so proud of you. You were amazing tonight. This is such an opportunity for you. We'll sort this out, okay. I support whatever you do to follow your dreams.”

It must be the liquor combined with his fatigue that makes it impossible for Elio to hold back his tears. They run down his cheek as he croaks out “Oliver...” and then the man he loves is suddenly next to him, all around him, holding him and rocking him back and forth and stroking his back, his face, whispering over and over “It's okay, baby, it's okay. I'm so proud, so proud.”

Eventually, Elio calms down a little and remembers to ask: “How was the talk with your father?”

Oliver goes rigid in his arms.

“We... spoke. That's all you need to know.”

“He thought I was a prostitute.” Elio is so tired and drained that he giggles.

“Yeah… Oh god…” Oliver's sounds mortified.

“It's okay. Did you correct him?”

“Let’s not talk about my father right now. Tonight. Or ever, okay?”

“Oliver, family is all we have in the end.” Elio remembers listening to the proud parents all around him tonight congratulating their children to their performance and how he'd wished his could have been among them...

“But family isn't necessarily the bunch of people you're born into. It can also be the people you choose to spend your life with.” Oliver's thumbs are brushing his cheeks. “You look half-dead. Let me take you to bed.”

They fall asleep still dressed, cuddling under the comforter.

The next morning they are hungover and have left-over pizza for breakfast before going back to sleep, ending the day with a Patrick Swayze marathon on Netflix.

Elio still has a few classes and exams and even an essay to write over the next week – with which Oliver helps as best he can, typing up what Elio is dictating him on the history of French ballet, because his own semester is winding down as well and he has only some marking to do – so time flies.

His ballet teacher explains to Elio that his stay with the Ballet d'Opera will start on August 1st and run till end of May next year. That leaves him July to sort out his business in Italy.

Now that he has all the details he can book his flight. It feels strange to ask just for a one-way ticket.

When he's handed in his last paper he forces himself to send Mafalda a voicemail, announcing his arrival for next Friday.

She calls him back in the evening, almost crying, assuring him that Anchise will meet him at the airport.

“I'll get your old room ready. Oh, Elio! I'll make you apricot juice and bake that tarte you loved so much as a child... It's so good you're coming home.” He doesn't have the heart to correct her.

After hanging up, he throws himself all over Oliver on the couch, demanding a massage.

“Was it that kind of a call?”

Elio sighs. “I'll have to sort some things in Italy I've avoided facing over the past few years. But since I've turned eighteen I'm responsible for parts of my parent's inheritance. It's complicated, because another part, the money part from my grand mere, will only come into effect when I'm twenty-one. So, there's a gap, you see? I really don't care about all of this but apparently my aunt can't manage these things anymore so it's time I take on my responsibilities.”

“So you'll clean out an old Italian palazzo?”

“It's not a palazzo. It's a villa. But, yeah... kinda. I'll have to meet lawyers and make some decisions I postponed way too long.”

“For me, the uncivilized American, it's a palazzo – and you're my prince.”

Elio rolls his eyes so hard he fears they might pop out of his head. Would he even realize if they did?

“You're horrible. Remind me why I put up with you.”

Oliver does. Slowly, often and very convincing over the coming weekend.

 

“When will we meet again?” Elio asks on Sunday afternoon, blissfully shagged out.

“You're not even gone yet.” Oliver answers. He's been tense when he thinks Elio doesn't notice but of course he does. His shoulders feel tight and his jaw goes rigid under Elio’s lips more and more often. He’s been on the phone a lot. Maybe it's still his quarrel with his father that's bothering him?

He’s also been gone a lot last week when Elio knows he wasn’t at Cooper Union. Where else could he have been? Elio doesn’t dare to ask too many questions because he’s new to all this living together thing and aware that people need space… but still.

When he’d asked, Oliver’s answers had been evasive and vague. Elio feels left out and doesn’t like it.

So he says: “But we need to make plans. Isn't that what adults do? Make plans.”

Oliver sighs. He sounds annoyed and a little angry when he says: “I'm not sure I'll be able to visit you over there before Christmas break. So, happy now?” 

Elio isn't. The harsh truth feels like a punch to the gut. It doesn’t much help that Oliver continues: “You won't even realize it with all the training and the new experiences and... Paris.”

“But I want to experience it with you.” It's only June and December is far away. Six months. That's longer than they've know each other. So many things can happen in six months...

“I know. It'll be the best Christmas ever.” Oliver kisses him but it feels more like shutting him up than tender affection.

Elio puts on a brave smile even if it's just for Oliver's sake. “Sure. Best Christmas ever.” He repeats.

The next week is filled with shopping and packing and unpacking and more shopping – especially gifts for Elio's huge family, but also sorting through his personal stuff to decide what to take to Paris with him. Elio feels himself getting more and more nervous as the date of his departure approaches while Oliver goes quieter and quieter as the days pass, holding him close at night.

The phone calls have stopped and Oliver seems eerily calm most of the time. Too calm. It riles Elio up that Oliver seems almost detached from his preparations to leave for a whole year.

Doesn’t he care?

When he can't find his passport on Sunday, Elio snaps. They have a blazing row about virtually nothing, banging doors and screaming insults until Elio kicks over what sounds like the table with Oliver’s painting utensil, sending them crashing onto the floor.

The smell of turpentine fills the air.

Elio is about to apologize when Oliver yanks him by his hair. He’s too surprised to protest and lets himself be dragged into the bedroom where Oliver tells him, stern and firm: “On your knees.”

These three words make Elio's brain stop from going round in circles as serenity settles over him.

He sinks down onto the floor, his hands behind his back – and waits.

“You're out of control.” Oliver tells him and Elio nods, not sure if he's allowed to speak. “I guess I've slackened your reins.”

“I'm not a pony.” Elio bites out. That earns him another painful tug at his curls.

“I can make you into one if I want to. Put you in a harness and ride you.”

Elio whimpers, both from anguish and arousal.

“But not tonight. Tonight I'll just put you over my knee and give you what you deserve.”

“Ye-es, Professor Weizmann.”

“I'll be right back, I won't leave the room.” Oliver tells him before he releases him. Elio can hear him digging around in their closet and a shiver runs down his spine.

He's found Oliver's box hidden there a few days ago when searching for a pair of leggings. It had been locked but that hadn't stopped Elio's imagination running wild regarding its contents. He'd come up with all kinds of delicious scenarios.

Now one of them might become reality. His cock twitches in his jeans (new ones; he had to replace the pair stained with yellow handprints on the backside).

“Take your clothes off.” Oliver orders him and Elio is just too happy to comply. He knows Oliver likes him to fold his things and so he makes a show of tossing them messily to the side in hope to increase his punishment.

“God, you're such a brat. Get back down on the carpet, on all fours.”

Elio almost melts, crouching on the soft rug lying in front of their bed, the fabric protecting his knees and palms.

“Open your mouth.” This is something new.

A device enters Elio's mouth. He tastes latex. “Gives you something to chew on during punishment.” Punishment. Elio perks up at the word. “Besides, we don't want you to scream the place down.”

Elio shakes his head. The thing in his mouth is pressing his tongue down. He sucks experimentally. Then he grins. A latex dildo? Okay...

Suddenly, he smells leather. Something is covering his mouth as Oliver fastens a strap behind his head, carefully avoiding to catch his curls in the clasp.

“It's a pecker gag. If you're a good boy I'll put the part you're sucking on right now to good use later. For now, as you won't be able to use your safeword like this, I want you to knock on the floor three times if you need me to stop. Understood?”

Elio hums in agreement, the gag silencing him. The plastic cock feels heavy in his mouth, filling it.

“Good. Can you breathe properly? Show me.”

Elio in- and exhales a few times through his nose.

“If you start to feel dizzy, signal me and I'll stop.

Elio hums again, getting a little impatient. Oliver seems to sense it and strokes his back.

“Believe me, the time will come when you'll wish you wouldn't have been so eager.”

Elio smiles behind his gag. His cock is already full, hanging thick and swollen between his legs. Oliver's hand rests on the small of his back and he wiggles his bum to maybe entice him to move a little lower.

Instead, what feels like supple leather straps touch Elio's skin, tickling him.

“I'll be using a flogger on you. It's made from calfskin. The strands are rather broad and won't mark easily. Ready?” Oliver's voice is firm but kind.

Elio nods.

It's not that bad – at first. The leather licks his skin, stinging a little, but it feels more like being touched by nettles, uncomfortable but not really painful. Oliver scatters the strokes all over his back, ass and thighs, unpredictable. They come in quick succession but after about ten Oliver gives him a break, checking in if he's okay.

The ache increases as the procedure continues, from a dull throb building up to a sharp sting as abused skin is hit again and again. Eventually, Elio's body feels hot all over as he breathes heavily through his nose, groaning into his gag.

“I told you so.” Oliver chuckles and tears well up in Elio's eyes that Oliver is laughing at his humiliation and suffering. That doesn't mean his erection flags. On the contrary, being treated like this really turns him on.

“You brought that onto yourself, babe.”

Elio knows Oliver is right and nods.

Slowly, the pain is drowning out everything else that has been nagging him: his imminent departure, the demands waiting for him in Crema, his fears of failing in Paris... it's just the next stroke, the tingle searing through his body, and his brain rewarding him by releasing dopamine, flooding his bloodstream with oblivion.

“You look beautiful.” Oliver tells him and Elio moans around the toy in his mouth. “Red all over. Kneel up.”

When Elio does Oliver starts to pay attention to his front. Soon, his sensitive nipples peak while sitting on his sore thighs adds additional sensation. To calm himself he sucks on the dildo like a baby on a pacifier, imagining how it will feel inside him.

The leather bites his chest and stomach with smacking sounds and Elio balls his hands into fists to suppress the instinct to cover himself, almost leaning into the blows.

But when Oliver strokes the strands of the flogger over his stiff cock Elio goes off like a rocket, shooting his load all over himself.

He didn’t see that coming. It’s mortifying.

He tries to beg forgiveness when he hears Oliver curse but it's just grunts until the gag is removed from his mouth.

“Down!” Oliver barks.

Elio falls forward, flat on the carpet, and raises his ass in the air like a bitch in heat. He doesn't care how he looks, he needs to be filled.

But when Oliver slams the spit-slick dildo inside him without a warning Elio howls. His limbs start twitching until he feels cool leather straps around his wrists and ankles. Oliver is folding his legs backwards and then pulls tight. Elio jerks in his bounds but is helpless, exposed, hogtied and immobilized. When he starts to complain, however, his words are quickly silenced by Oliver pulling his head up by his curls to shove his own hard cock into Elio's mouth until he chokes.

He relaxes his throat and takes it while the short dildo up his ass grazes his prostate until he's hard again and mewling. There is no other word for the sounds he makes.

Meanwhile, Oliver ruthlessly fucks his face, his big hands in Elio's sweat-damp curls as he feeds him his cock without mercy.

And Elio takes it, takes it, until he can taste Oliver's briny seed filling his mouth.

He swallows all.

When Oliver pulls out he asks: “Are you hard again? Good.” before stepping back and sitting down on the bed by the sound of it creaking. Elio by now knows better than to move though he really wants to rub himself against the carpet.

He keeps very still, his face resting on his left cheek, turned towards the bed while he listens to Oliver slowly getting his breath back. His skin is burning, spit and cum are dripping down his chin, both his asshole and cock are throbbing with need and that's really all he can think about. Life can be so simple when one's been reduced to a debauched plaything for other people's lust.

Suddenly, Oliver's thumb touches his cheekbone, spreading the sticky mixture of saliva and ejaculate all over his face. It reminds Elio of their paint fight a few weeks ago; only, this is the adult version.

“How are you?” Oliver asks.

“Fine. Horny.” Elio doesn't recognize his own voice but that's no wonder after first having his mouth gagged and then fucked.

Oliver chuckles. “Let me help you with that.”

Oliver flicks the base of the short plug. Elio rolls his hips and as Oliver doesn't tell him to stop he does it again and again, rutting against the rug, not caring that he might get a serious chafing.

He begs. He sighs. He screams a little. But Oliver won't be hastened, mumbling praise while pressing just lightly down onto the plug, subtly shifting it inside Elio until he bucks his hips once, twice and then finds release once more, his spunk soaking the carpet beneath him.

The next few moments are erased from his memory. Oliver must have untied the straps and removed the toy but he only comes to when he is carrying him in his arms.

“I ran you a bath.” He says as he lowers Elio into the hot water. How long has he been out?

Oliver gently washes his face, his back, his hair, his sensitive cock and balls, dries him off afterwards and rubs lotion into his abused skin that smells faintly of rosemary.

When he tugs Elio into bed he wants to argue that he’s not tired but falls asleep halfway through his tirade.

When he wakes again they slowly make love one last time and then Oliver finds his passport in the front pocket of Elio's backpack – where it belongs - and after packing his last few items like his toothbrush they get into an Uber to the airport.

Elio leans against Oliver the whole ride out to JFK.

In the back of the car, Oliver suddenly takes his hand. “Elio… I just wanted to tell you… we won’t be seeing each other for a while. “Elio snorts a laugh at that. “Yeah, okay, just a figure of speech. What I want to say is… if you need time to think… about us… now would be a good time. I want you to enjoy your stay in Europe. It’s all gone so fast… with us… maybe it’s good if we put the brakes on a little, reflect where this is going?”

“What is it you’re trying to tell me, Oliver?” The last 24 hours are taking a toll on Elio. He’s has no mental capacity left to decipher Oliver’s rather cryptic message.

“Just that we’ve been caught up in a whirlwind romance and putting some distance between us can be a good thing to sort… priorities.”

“Priorities?”

“All I’m saying is that I don’t want to trap you in a long-distance relationship when the world is waiting for you. No strings attached-“

“Just shut up!” Elio turns his face and kisses the closest part of Oliver he can reach. “I appreciate the gesture… well, not really. You haven’t trapped me in anything. And as for strings…,” he rubs his wrists, “you won’t hear me complain about those either.”

“You’re impossible.” Oliver tells him, but the jest in his tone sounds a little forced.

“Call me as soon as you have time.” Oliver says after they dropped Elio’s suitcase on the conveyor belt.

“It will be the middle of the night.” Elio reminds him.

“I don't care.”

They hug and kiss and kiss some more and Elio doesn't want to let go, blocking out the buzz of the people all around them until someone clears their throat behind him. It turns out to be the stewardess guiding him to his gate.

“Have a save trip.”

“Thanks.” What else can he say? This is not the time or place for an epic love confession but that's somehow all Elio can think about. 'I love you, Oliver. I'll miss you so much it already hurts. I need you. I don't want to go.'

“Do you have your passport?” Oliver asks and Elio nods, his mouth filled with a choke. He hugs Oliver again, grabbing the back of his shirt in the firm resolve to never let go.

He can feel Oliver smile against his cheek. “Christmas, remember. I’ll see you in six months.” One last kiss and then Oliver says “Good-bye” and is gone. The stewardess gently touches Elio's arm as he reaches out for him in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable further. When he just grasps thin air he stops mid-motion, standing there for a moment before shouldering his backpack. As he straightens up he gets out his cane and walks towards the gate and all the uncertainty it will lead to.

_'Six months, six months, six months'_ is hammering in his ears.

Little does he know that it won't even be six weeks until he'll be with Oliver again.

\---------

Chalamazed did it again:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sad ending - but I hope the last sentence cheers you all up. Though, a friendly warning: The next two chapters will be a small angst fest. They boys will miss each other terribly!
> 
> Here's the pecker gag Oliver uses on Elio:  
> https://www.regulation.co.uk/bondage/gags-blindfolds/fetters-pecker-gag-leather-strap.html


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From New York to Milan... 
> 
> Sorry, there's angst coming. But not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think every writer of long fic knows this: you have this one chapter that doesn't comply, that defies you... this is mine. I have no idea how often I've rewritten and reworked this chapter but now I've the feeling it's just getting longer, not better. So I unleash it. Please, be kind!

The apartment feels cold despite the heat of June outside when Oliver returns alone from the airport. And empty, though it's only Elio's few clothes that are gone. Still, it's like the soul of the place is suddenly missing.

Over the past couple weeks Oliver has become so used to Elio's presence here and in his life that his absence registers painfully now.

Oliver stares at Elio’s ballet barre still remaining in the living room, even puts his hands on it so somehow magically connecting with him. He must be on board of his plane by now, probably already over the Atlantic, going on his awfully big adventure in Europe. While Oliver himself has only a few days left to find a new apartment, or he'll be homeless on his 27th birthday in a few weeks.

Up until now nothing suitable – or rather, affordable – has come up. He's enlisted a few of his colleagues, asked them to get the word out that he was looking for a new place, big enough for two, but the offers he’s got so far were way out of his price range. Or so run down that he'd wondered how anyone would consider such a dump inhabitable – yet, apparently, in Manhattan you can rent out a cockroach invested shoebox for the price of a decent four bedroom mansion in a leafy suburb.

It sucks big time.

So it's actually a good thing that Elio is out of the country and doesn't have to witness Oliver's increasing despair as he hopes for a miracle to happen over the next few days.

Though, truth be told, the circumstances don’t cheer Oliver up.

He’d even briefly entertained the wild idea of going with Elio to Italy. But Elio hadn’t asked him again and he didn’t want to impose on him. He knows by now that Elio likes to be independent and wants to deal with his business over there alone. Oliver still remembers with a shudder his premature love confession – and Elio’s reaction. ‘Don’t come on too strong’ he had reminded himself a few times lately. Besides, a few weeks in Italy won’t help Oliver find a new place in New York. He would still be homeless after his return, and only more broke because he had to pay for his flights.

To pull himself out of his misery and take his mind off his loneliness Oliver starts to pack. Work is the best antidote to self-pity in his experience. He has to do it anyway soon so he can just as well start dismembering his life now.

He begins with his books, sorting through them to only keep the ones he really likes. They still fill three crates. Next are his CDs and records, which Elio had laughed at, asking him why he still bought these when there was Spotify.

After half an hour of boxing them up Oliver starts to see his point. Still, he likes to have something solid in his hand when it comes to music. 

Soon, his living room is filled with boxes as the walls start to look bare.

When it's getting dark outside and Oliver is carefully packing up his art materials – tubes and pots of paints, brushes, varnish, pigments – it hits him with a pang that he never found time over the last few weeks to paint Elio...

He vows to make good for it the next time they meet. Maybe he can even paint Elio from one of the drawings he kept, giving it to him as a Christmas present (will they do Christmas presents?). But for now, he carefully encases Rachel’s unfinished portrait in bubble wrap and leans it with its face against the wall.

Has Elio already landed by now, Oliver wonders as he looks outside over nocturnal New York City, illuminated by thousands of little lights, each indicating another person going about their life? Could he call him? But maybe he's tired... or meeting up with his huge family? He hasn't been with them for almost a year... Oliver can't expect Elio to immediately phone him after crossing the Atlantic, returning to the fold.

Oliver remembers Elio telling him that he'd fly to Milan and go from there to the old villa in a small town called Crema. Immediately? Or would he stay with his aunt and uncle for a few days? The details are blurry though Elio sure had explained them. Only, Oliver’s been preoccupied with finding somewhere to stay in Manhattan, so an old, probably dilapidated house somewhere in Northern Italy couldn’t really capture his interest – even if it might be a palazzo. The way Elio had described it, how worried he had sounded, it’s a crumbling ruin anyway, more a burden than a refuge.

Now he wishes he'd listened so he had a better idea where Elio might be right now, what he would do in this very moment...

He cracks open a beer and sits back on his couch, resting, toying with his phone, scrolling through some news sites...

He startles awake at a shrill ringing, confused at first where he is, searching for his alarm before he realizes that he's still on the sofa and it’s still dark outside. As his cell phone lies quietly next to him it must actually be his landline that's making the noise. Stumbling into the kitchen where the phone is screwed to the wall Oliver gazes at the clock above the fridge. It's three in the morning. Fuck!

Something terrible must have happened for Elio to call him in the middle of the night. Horror scenarios flash in front of Oliver’s eyes – another car accident (Italians are notorious for their reckless driving after all) or even a plane crash... Maybe Elio is stranded somewhere in Europe, blind, alone... or he was mugged...

“Yeah, Elio, please, tell me you're alright...” Oliver shouts down the line after almost ripping the phone off the wall when lifting the receiver.

“Professor Weizmann?”

Oliver doesn't recognize the voice but it has an Italian accent... Oh god, it's a hospital, or the police, telling him that something terrible has happened...

“Yes.” He croaks out, his mouth dry as if filled with dust.

“Excuse me for calling you at this time... I think it must be evening in New York right now?”

What the fuck is this? “Just tell me what happened!” Oliver barks, almost dropping the receiver because his palm is slippery with sweat.

“Okay...” The person on the other end, a woman, sounds a bit bewildered but then continues while Oliver's heart is about to beat out of his ribcage. “I got your number from Donatella. Signora Mabuse.”

Now it's Oliver's turn to be confused. “What?” The only Signora Mabuse he knows works at an art school in Milan, but why should she know Elio and give a hospital Oliver's number in New York? It's true, she must have it because she visited him and Rachel when she spent a few months here teaching at NYU two years back but still... “How's Elio? Was there an accident?”

“I... I don't know. Listen, maybe there's been a misunderstanding. My name is Lucia Guadagnino. I'm the director of the _Accademia di Belle Arti_ in Milan. The only accident we had recently was Professor Garrel falling down the stairs yesterday evening, which is why I'm calling you. Donatella is a friend of mine and thought you might be interested in coming back to Milan to teach a summer course, to cover for Professor Garrel while he's recovering from complicated fractures to his arms?”

“Sorry... sorry.” Oliver has to lean back against the kitchen wall, taking a few deep breaths to collect himself. “Did I get that right? You're offering me a job in Milan for the next three months?”

“Yes. I have to apologize, I know it's very short notice but... you've already worked here, Donatella tells me. And that you… might be looking for a change of air, is that the correct phrase? We host an international exchange program, the students come from all over the world and we desperately need someone with an international reputation who speaks English. We'll cover all your costs, of course. Book the flight, find accommodation. The salary will be € 3500,- a months which is roughly... $ 5000,-.”

Oliver swallows, speechless. Is this the sign he’s been looking for? Has the universe answered his silent bargaining?

“But you have to start immediately. It's a summer program, because oversea students apparently _love_ the Italian summer. No idea why, we are actually melting here. Anyway, that means you have to arrive here in three days. We start on the first of July, the course runs till 30th September.”

Oliver lets his eyes wander over the mountain of boxes in his apartment illuminated by the neon lights from the kitchen. What does he have to lose? Three months will give him time, veritable breathing space. It can be like a paid vacation. And maybe something will come up in New York after the summer? This offer solves so many of his imminent problems it would be ridiculous to turn it down.

He imagines Elio’s reaction when he surprises him in Italy… He could even visit on the odd weekend in Paris to help him settle in… He wouldn’t just drag along, he’d have a job to do, a purpose, while Elio dealt with his stuff.

“That's… that’s really not a problem.” Oliver says, pinching himself because maybe, just maybe, this is all just a dream and he'll wake up any minute now.

 

Four days later, Oliver is walking through the streets of Milan, staying in the shade to escape the afternoon heat, searching for a trattoria to have drinks and dinner. The jet lag and the chaos of the last days still weigh on him but he has to eat something and really wants to explore the city he missed so much.

It's stifling even on the broad avenues, the sidewalks are full of tourists; the air smells of putrefaction, fumes and his own sweat – and he loves it.

It could all be good, great even, if it wasn’t for Elio…

After hanging up the phone four days ago he’d taken a shower to fully wake up and when he'd emerged from the bathroom he'd already received an email with his contract and details. Over the next two days he'd sorted things with Cooper Union, put his few belongings into storage, packed a backpack and a suitcase – and had waited for Elio's call. Which had eventually come 36 hours after he'd seen him off at the airport.

“Hey...” He'd sounded tired.

“Hey, Elio, babe, how are you?”

“I'm... I'm good. Yeah. Sorry for not calling earlier but... it was all a bit much, coming back here...”

“It's okay, don't worry.” Ha, Oliver had been on the brink of calling the US embassy in Rome to inquire after a missing person. But Elio didn’t need to know that. “I understand. How is it, being back?”

There had been a prolonged silence. “It's strange.” Elio had said eventually.

“Are you still in Milan?” Oliver had been so excited to tell him about his surprise. ‘We can go for dinner at the weekend if you like…’

“No, Anchise met me at the airport. We drove straight to Crema.”

“The _palazzo_.”

“It's a villa.” Elio hadn’t laughed, not even a little. He must’ve been really knackered. His next words had felt like a slap. “I... I'm sorry, Oliver. But I think I... just need time here, okay?”

“What do you mean?” Oliver's giddiness had dissolved at Elio's flat tone.

“I mean... the things here... they demand my full attention. I really need to think about a few things. Important things. And make decisions. And I feel I can only do that when I’m… free, unburdened. Do you understand?” He had sounded so small but there'd also been frustration in his voice, anger even. At whom, Oliver had been unable to say. Had he done something wrong?

“No, Elio. I don't think I understand.” Fear had fought with panic as Oliver had tried to stay calm. “What is this? Are you breaking up with me?” It had been meant as a joke but had come out a little heavy.

"No... I... I don’t know, Oliver. You said... you'd give me time. And space. That distance might be a good thing, that it all happened so fast. And I think I need that right now. So... I mean, we can still talk, of course... but I need to be here, you know, not wishing I'd be with you. That's no use to me right now. I need to focus. To find a way back to myself and all… this. Alone. It’s all very complicated. Draining. So, please, give me time to sort things here. On my own. I have to do this on my own. I promise I'll call you when it's all done. Okay?”

By then Oliver's head had been spinning. “Of course, Elio. Everything you need.” He'd swallowed his longing, his excitement, because Elio had sounded so... serious. If he needed time without any distraction to come to terms with certain things Oliver couldn't deny him that. And therefore he shouldn’t tell him that he’ll be in Milan in 48 hours. Because that might be one hell of a distraction. Only not a good one by the sound of it. 

It might look like as if Oliver was following Elio, kinda stalking him, constricting him even as he had proposed the opposite just days ago. Also, Oliver still hadn’t spoken to Elio about being forced to move out. If he didn’t know that Oliver was coming to Milan for three months he could keep quiet about the whole apartment situation in New York a while longer, hopefully long enough until he could present Elio with a solution.

_‘Don’t spook him!’_

Oliver didn’t want to risk another silence like the one after he’d told Elio he loved him. So, space was good, distance was good. Independence was important in a mature relationship. He’d respect the boundaries Elio set. 

He’d sighed. “If that's what you need. Of course. Just, promise me to call regularly. At least every Sunday. Okay? So I know you're alright.”

“I... think I can manage that. Okay, great, I have to go...”

That has been the last Oliver had heard of Elio. So he doesn't know that they are currently less than 30 miles apart. And if Oliver hadn't been under so much pressure over the last few days maybe he'd worried more about the state of their relationship. But he simply didn't have time for that.

But now, as he walks through the once familiar streets of Milan, tired, sweating, and hungry, he allows his thoughts to drift, questioning his decisions as his carefully constructed excuses and explanations threaten to come down like a house of cards. Why hadn’t he told Elio the truth about the apartment and this summer job? Why did he feel the need to keep so many secrets? Coming clean was getting harder with each day.

_‘You’ve dug yourself into a fucking deep hole, my friend.’_

And why was Elio behaving so weird? Or was he? Didn’t Oliver himself suggest some distance ( _‘makes the heart grow fonder, they say’_ ).

Can he really blame Elio for taking him up on his words?

Oliver eventually finds a place where he's not dragged inside by pushy waiters and sinks into a chair in the shadow of a big white parasol, ordering an aperitivo to relax and mull things over.

It's Saturday, so Elio should call tomorrow. For now, Oliver won’t tell him where he is. He probably wouldn’t believe that it's all a coincidence and would start arguing, feel betrayed, his wishes for distance not taken seriously… What could Oliver say in his defense?

_‘I love you, I have to be close to you.’_

Ah, once bitten, twice shy…

It’s hard to be this close yet forced to stay apart…

Yet what are these things Elio has to sort, has to come to terms with – without Oliver? Why should Oliver not be allowed to help him, to support him? Does he really believe he has to do everything on his own? That Oliver can only respect him when he manages all by himself? Why does Elio dislike accepting help so much?

But is he himself so different?

That is a line of thought Oliver doesn’t want to pursue right now.

Instead, Oliver remembers Elio’s almost stubbornly demands for independence - but is that really all?

Or has this something to do with his past? With the accident, its aftermath? Why would he want to keep _that_ from Oliver?

Or maybe Elio is just lying to him? Did he get cold feet and wants to end things between them, have it peter out and fade over a summer without contact...?

But why so suddenly? Oliver is pretty sure that everything had been good between them right up until Elio had left for Italy. True, he had been a bit preoccupied with finding a new place, and Elio had been nervous and stressed out a little... but otherwise things had been great. Amazing. Something had started to grow between them, something meaningful and strong and marvelous.

Oliver wants to believe that he didn't imagine these things.

But maybe… he’d come on too strong again? Maybe their last scene, the flogging, the toys had been too much, too scary for Elio?

Just because he hadn’t said anything doesn’t have to mean he liked what they did when he got time to think about it…

So, what the hell is going on? 

Oliver orders a second Campari orange and has wine with his meal but the alcohol doesn’t disclose to him the mysteries of the inner machinations of Elio Perlman. When he eventually finds his way back to the small University guest apartment with a view of the Orto Botanico he's pleasantly buzzed, though, and just falls into his bed, dreaming of Elio's lean body and silky curls…

Elio calls him as promised the next day, just when Oliver is inspecting his new studio in the venerable _Accademia di Belle Arti di Brera_. The stairs are made of marble and his steps echo in the arched hallways. The high oak door to his studio flooded with the soft afternoon light creaks as he pushes it open, carrying an armful of paints, pastels and drawing paper. It's a far cry from the modern minimalism of Cooper Union.

He drops his loot on the large wooden table between the huge windows when his phone starts to ring.

“Elio!”

“Hey, Oliver. Good morning. I hope I didn't wake you?”

“What? No, I've been up for hours, it's-” Shit! Of course, it's just early morning in New York. “It's good to hear your voice. I miss you. So I got up early and... went for a run.” That was a close call.

“Okay. Great.” But Elio doesn't sound excited. Truth be told he sounds vacant, distant, as if this call is more of a chore than a pleasure.

When he says nothing else Oliver asks: “And you? How are things?”

“Good.”

What is this? Certainly not a conversation.

“Elio, is everything okay with you? You can tell me if-”

“I'm fine! Everything's fine, Oliver.” Now he sounds annoyed, defensive.

“Okay, sorry. I'm sorry, Elio.”

The silence settles between them.

“What are you up to, then?” Oliver asks eventually in a desperate attempt to keep this call going.

“I... I actually have a lot to do. So... I've gotta go.”

“Elio, what...? Just call me next Sunday, okay?”

But the line is dead already.

Oliver doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all.

Yet the week flies by and he has rarely time to do anything else apart from teaching a group of thirty graduate art students from all over the world. They are talented, interested, motivated – it's a pleasure. In the evenings Oliver shows them the city or goes out with his colleagues, their opulent dinners lasting way into the night.

God, he missed the Italian way of life!

But alone at night in his small stuffy apartment, he worries. He has to remind himself more than once that Elio is an adult, that he’s perfectly capable of making his own decisions – and that he himself suggested to take a step back and reflect on the state of their relationship. This now might be a good thing, Elio growing up, setting boundaries.

Oliver still doesn’t like how Elio sounded.

Yet he respects his request, though he sits every night with his phone in hand, thinking about calling him. It becomes harder and harder not to. Especially after a few glasses of wine.

Next Sunday he's on an excursion with a group of students who wanted to explore the Castello Sforczesco when his phone rings. He hurries outside into the park and answers it when standing in the shadow of a lush plane tree.

“Hey, Elio!”

“Oliver.” He sounds... even worse. Bad. There's no other word for it.

“Baby, what-”

“I... fuck. I should never have come here. This was all a mistake. I'm not even able to... fuck this all-”

“Elio, please...” A group of tourists passes by and he has to cover the mouthpiece of his cell phone so Elio won't hear the guide explain about the castle. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“You're not even listening to me! Why do you make me call you when you don't even listen to what I say?” Elio’s voice cracks. Is he crying?

“Elio, I'm sorry but... something is definitely not okay with you. Why don't you tell me what's really going on?”

“What could you do about it? It’s not that you’re…! God, this is all so futile-”

“What? What is futile?” Oliver is getting angry. “Us? Is that what you mean? Are you going to dump me? Then go on. Just... just stop this… shillyshallying!”

“I’m not… You forced me to call despite-”

“Because that's what people _do_ who are in love with each other! They talk. They want to talk. Do you even miss me?”

“Do I even miss you? Oliver... you're such an asshole! Do _you_ even listen to yourself sometimes?”

“It's just, you don't sound too keen talking to me. You don't tell me anything. I'm not part of your life all of a sudden! Is there someone else? Did you meet someone? Is... Matteo back?” Oliver is clutching at straws but he suddenly needs to know, his self-imposed restraint melting under the burning Italian summer sun like a snowball in hell.

“God, Oliver. This is not about... you know what, forget it. Let's just end it here, okay. That way we can spare each other a year of misery. Isn’t that what you wanted all along? No strings attached!”

“Elio...!” Oliver grabs his phone so hard he fears the device might break. “Don't... just, let me help you.”

“You can't help me! You're more than four thousand miles away. How do you think you can help me with the shit I've going on here?”

“Elio-”

“Fuck off, Oliver.”

He hangs up. When Oliver tries to call him back – giving space be damned! – Elio’s phone goes straight to voicemail.

“Fuck! Shit! Fuck!” Oliver yells and a few heads turn while he almost smashes his mobile on the ground. Then he runs to the park entrance and hails a taxi. It can’t be that expensive to get to Crema. And even if it cost him all his money it doesn’t matter; because not going to Elio right now will cost him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, again, I'm sorry! But I can promise you, by then end of the next chapter they'll be reunited...


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio meets the ghosts of his past. Quite literally...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is Elio's PoV on what's happening in Italy. Some of you have already mentioned the strain and pressure he's under...

The villa lies in silence when Elio eventually arrives after a nine hour flight and another hour in Anchise’s ramshackle Fiat speeding through the Italian countryside. He has no idea what time it is either in Crema nor in New York anymore but his body just aches for rest. He feels a pounding headache coming on and the drive has made him nauseous.

He hates cars but it’s easier this way, instead of navigating Milan’s public transport and trains; Elio is exhausted enough as it is.

Then Mafalda greets him, running outside, her quick, light steps crunching on the gravel of the driveway before she fiercely hugs him, smelling of chamomile, flour and olive oil.

“Elio, _tesoro_ , you’re home, you’re home.” She mumbles over and over in her heavy Lombardian accent, almost squeezing every Oxygen molecule from his body until Anchise calls her a _‘mamma chioccia’_ , accusing her of suffocating Elio.

Grumbling, she lets go and pulls him inside the house. He can hear Anchise get his luggage from the trunk.

Outside, the air had been warm, scented with herbs, spicy conifers and sweet rhododendron. Inside, it’s much cooler. Elio’s steps echo from the high ceilings as he walks through the entrance hall and down the corridor leading to the kitchen.

He doesn’t need his cane here. The layout of the place is ingrained in his brain.

Of course, Mafalda commands him to her kitchen while Anchise ascends the creaking stairs, cursing under his breath as he drags Elio’s suitcase upstairs – presumably into his old room.

His stomach does a somersault.

“Look at you. Skin and bones. You must be hungry.” A chair is raked over the stone floor and a second later Mafalda pushes him down. Elio smells fruity tomato sauce, freshly baked bread and strong cheese. Despite his fatigue his stomach grumbles. Next thing he knows, a plate is set in front of him, the warm steam of fresh pasta reaching his nostrils.

“I made _farfalle_. I thought that would be easier. Not like spaghetti, right?”

Elio sighs while he feels for the fork. “Mafalda, I can eat spaghetti perfectly fine. I’m not a baby.”

But she just ruffles his hair and fetches him a drink. Strong red wine, of course, without even asking, luckily accompanied by a carafe of cool water.

He eats in silence, aware of Mafalda’s comforting presence. When his plate is empty Mafalda tries to feed him a second serving and he has to argue to stop her.

“But you look like you were starving yourself!”

“Mafalda, I’m a dancer. I look fine.”

“What do you know? You look like a skeleton, like death walking. You need someone to take proper care of you, _tesoro_. At least eat a piece of my apricot tart.”

He sighs, accepts defeat and obeys. Because her tart is simply the best – fluffy, sweet, buttery, the fruit just the right side of mushy.

When he eventually rises from the table he feels like bursting – and more than a little drunk.

“I think I need a nap. I’m just knackered.” He had been unable to sleep on the plane, only dozing off from time to time. He doesn’t like flying and what expects him in Italy hadn’t helped him to rest. 

“We have prepared your old room…” It sounds as if Mafalda is busying herself with the washing up. Elio knows better than to offer help.

Yet he has to swallow at the thought of sleeping in his old bed. It has been almost seven years…

“Will you find your way?” Mafalda asks, dismissing him now that she’s stuffed him full of food. That has always been her way to show affection.

“Sure.”

“ _Dormi bene, Elio_.” Her wet hands grab his shoulders as her soft lips had press a kiss to his brow. “It’s good to have you back.”

_‘You won’t think the same when the summer is over and I’ve thrown you out of your home.’_ He thinks before ascending the broad staircase.

The room smells of fresh linen, green soap and sunlight. Elio is sure that Mafalda has spent the best part of the morning scrubbing it floor to ceiling. How long had it been unused and empty? Did anyone ever sleep here again after that fateful night? Elio doubts it.

He almost stumbles over his suitcase that Anchise has put down in the middle of the room. He’s tempted to just fall into bed but then his reflexes kick in and he unpacks his toiletries to at least wash his face and brush his teeth.

The towels in the bathroom smell of the chamomile detergent he remembers – like the sheets under which he crawls naked a minute later.

But despite being bone-deep tired he can’t sleep. The last time he’d been in here he’d still been able to see. He wonders if his posters are still on the walls, if his CD collection still resides on the shelf next to the door… he even remembers the book he’d been reading around the time – _The Miseducation Of Cameron Post_ , which feels like an eerie foreshadowing now. Does it still lie on the nightstand, a seven year old receipt from the Gelateria marking the page from where he’d wanted to pick up after returning from his birthday dinner?

Only, that never happened…

Elio doesn’t give in to the impulse to reach out and check.

Instead, as he listens to the sounds of the day outside his window – a hot breeze rustling the old trees, a car honking as it drives by on the country road, someone (probably Anchise) mowing the lawn - he allows himself to miss Oliver.

He knows he should have called him by now but the last 24 hours have been stressful for him – both emotional and physical. It must be early morning in New York right now? He shouldn’t wake Oliver up. If he’s honest, Elio feels unable to search for his phone. It’s like he’s paralyzed – and not only by fatigue.

Being back… home… makes everything he left back in New York seem kind of unreal, as if it’s been a dream. Over here, everything seems suddenly so solid, so familiar, as if he’s never left… the sounds, the voices, the smells, the feel of the wooden or stone floor beneath his bare feet, the worn banister under his palm, the starched sheets covering his skin.

He has no idea how to fit Oliver into this reality.

Besides, he fears if he hears his voice he’ll break down crying. How can you be homesick when you are already home, he wonders?

Elio tosses and turns, not used to the heat, acquainting himself once again with the sounds the house makes. He’s gotten so used to another body sleeping next to him that he’s missing it now like an amputated limb. He contemplates masturbating to quieten his whirling, confused thoughts but then decides against it. He’s too exhausted – and Mafalda always looks for signs of impurity.

In the end, his fingers find a woolly bundle under his pillow and it takes him a moment to realize that it must be his old cuddly toy – a brown puppy made of fluffy plush, scuffed and threadbare on its paws where a much younger Elio used to rub his nose against the soft fabric. He remembers missing it after the accident when he’d woken up in hospital – but at thirteen he’d been too proud to ask his aunt to get it for him.

His name’s Beppo.

Like he used to, Elio presses his furry friend against his face, trying to chase a scent long lost. Beppo just smells of dust and abandonment and loneliness – but it’s good to have him back nonetheless. 

Elio falls asleep a little less alone.

He must have slept at least 16 hours because when he’s woken by Mafalda bringing him breakfast – strong coffee, fresh fruit, soft-boiled eggs and white bread with Nutella spread finger-thick on it – she informs him at his protest that it’s already seven and that he has an appointment at eight. Elio is sure he makes a mess of the sheets but these are the kind of stains Mafalda doesn’t mind.

Afterwards, he showers and dresses in shorts and a t-shirt and just as he gets his phone out to call Oliver the lawyer arrives.

They sit together in what used to be his father’s study, going over contracts, bank statements, testaments, land deeds and other official papers (that his lawyer tries and fails to explain to him) all day until Elio’s head is spinning from the mixture of French, Italian, English and legal speech.

But what he had already feared has become much more apparent to him today: he’s virtually bankrupt. The funds he’d inherited from his father’s side are gone, spent on his education and maintenance of the villa over the past years. It’s not that Mafalda and Anchise even get properly paid – apart from living here for free. But the old house eats up the payments from his father’s pension Elio is entitled to as his sole heir nonetheless like a bottomless well, draining the bank account set up to keep things afloat over here.

It doesn’t help that Anchise is getting too old to fix and mend things alone. More and more often craftsmen have to be called in, charging a small fortune.

It’s not that Elio doesn’t have money – at least in theory. But it’s invested in a trust fund he inherited from his mother’s side – and his grandmere had decided back when she’d still been alive that he won’t get access to it before he turns 21. Which is in 13 months.

The lawyer doesn’t give him much hope to stay solvent till then. Instead, he advises Elio to give Mafalda and Anchise notice and sell up. He might even already have a suitable buyer, a US consortium developing luxury holiday resorts. They might cut down the orchard to build spa facilities but who needs all those fruit trees anyway these days?

Elio’s mother had loved her trees.

Mafalda makes jam and juice and cakes and preserves from its fruits.

Elio is torn. He can’t just throw her and Anchise out, sell up and leave. But he can’t afford to keep the villa either.

In the evening, Elio is sick with responsibility. He just wants to go back to New York and forget about all of this.

When he eventually pulls himself together and calls Oliver he feels like a complete failure. He’s a loser, disabled, not fit to manage his own estate. Hearing Oliver’s excited, warm voice only makes everything worse.

He wants to be with him so badly, just crawl into his lap and breathe him in that it makes his stupid, useless eyes fill with tears.

But he can’t allow himself to flee and abandon things here. He did that last summer and it only made things worse. Now he has to follow through, even as things are complicated, and difficult decisions lie ahead of him.

He’s an adult now. He has to do these things on his own. It’s none of Oliver’s business and he doesn’t want to burden him with his affairs. It’s Elio’s heritage, his ghosts, his problems. He’s sure Oliver has his own and doesn’t need more. Remembering his encounter with Oliver’s father still makes him feel ashamed and guilty. Maybe his absence is a good thing, can be a chance for them?

Just the possibility of confiding in and sharing his worries with Oliver is a distraction. It’s not helping Elio right now to dream up a knight in shining armor sweeping in to save the day when the roof is falling down and the heating doesn’t work properly.

And what could Oliver do anyway to help with the realities of either funding or evicting the villa, being thousands of miles away? Elio never got the impression that Oliver is affluent, even as his family seems to be wealthy. It’s out of the question that Elio would ask him for money. He’d rather prefer to swallow his own tongue.

Which is almost what he does during their call. Elio is aware that he sounds cold and detached as he explains to Oliver that he needs to settle things over here on his own to proof to himself that he’s able. How will he ever lead an independent life when the smallest obstacle has him cry for help? How could Oliver respect and trust him when he can’t get his own house in order, literally?

In just a few weeks everything will be fine and he’ll have cleared his mind, sorted matters – so he can concentrate on his dance training again. And on his relationship. A long-distance relationship. But others manage as well.

He just has to deal with Crema first.

But that’s easier said than done. Over the next few days, old friends and relatives come over. It’s nice but also exhausting. They ask, they argue, they advise… Elio is going in circles.

What is he supposed to do with a villa in Northern Italy when he’s a dancer, studying in New York, Paris and will later hopefully tour the world? But how can he sell up the house he was literally born in as his father’s car wouldn’t start when the contractions had started and so he’d been delivered in the master bedroom by Mafalda while Anchise had got papa drunk on one of his witch’s brews?

Memories lurk everywhere in this house. Elio wanders it sometimes, touching objects he remembers and that are miraculously still in the same place they were all those years ago. Or maybe it’s not a miracle? Maybe this house is a shrine and Mafalda and Anchise are its high-priests while he’s just a heathen, coming to destroy everything they’d preserved?

When he sits in papa’s study he sometimes thinks he smells his cigarettes, hand-rolled from tobacco so strong it had made Elio puke when he’d nicked one to smoke in the garden when he’d been eight.

In the living room, the blankets covering the sofa still faintly smell of mama’s perfume. Her books are still piled up on low tables.

And then there’s the piano. Elio doesn’t dare to touch it.

Even as the house is swarming with visitors all day the ghost of the past linger in the shadows, never granting him peace.

Not even his childhood friends coming over can take Elio’s mind off things. He hasn’t met most of them since his last summer here seven years ago. They’ve all returned for the holiday as their families have houses nearby.

But it’s not like the old days. Some can’t deal with how much Elio changed. And some have changed so much that Elio can’t connect with them anymore. They make small talk about Uni and people they used to know but Elio can’t switch off and just go swimming, dining or dancing with them. It seems he’s already lost the lightness of youth – at 19. 

When he calls Oliver next Sunday he sounds… a little strange. Alert. Surprised despite insisting that Elio should call today. Elio wonders what’s going on in New York. Does Oliver already regret letting Elio go? Or is he regretting their relationship? What he’d said in the car to JFK still makes Elio feel uneasy.

Because Elio’s sure Oliver’s sick of being alone. And why should he? Everyone had told Elio that Oliver practically looks like a Greek god. So why should he wait a whole year for his skinny, blind boyfriend to return from Europe when he surely could have so much fun in the meantime?

But it still hurts that it maybe only took a few days for Oliver to hook up with someone else… would Oliver really do that? Elio wants to suppress this thought but it’s not working because he’s sure Oliver is hiding something from him. He sounds evasive. His voice is too high, too cheerful. Elio’s good at hearing and noticing these things because as he can’t see he had to develop other means to tell if people lie to him.

As Oliver does right now.

Fuck!

He ends the call, frustrated, disappointed.

Over the cause of the next week, the lawyer gets more and more pushy. The American investors want to view the property and Elio is pressured to agree and set a date. It gets to the point where he doesn’t answer his phone anymore.

He can’t eat the meals Mafalda cooks for him because he feels so guilty for what he’s about to do to her – which only leads to her trying to feed him more, preparing his favorite dishes, sighing when she has to carry another tray full of untouched food back into the kitchen.

He avoids Anchise like the plague, too, staying in his room as to not stumble upon him mending, fixing and patching up things, unable to deal with his own self-hatred when he catches him repairing things in a house he won’t be allowed back in by next month…

When sleep alludes him at night Elio wanders the rooms, touches things, the furniture, the drapes as if saying good-bye, then sits on the balcony or in the garden for hours, feeling the warm breeze on his face while cicadas chirp around him, almost giving him peace.

His lawyer’s voicemails get more and more angry.

Saturday night he finally takes courage and walks out onto the driveway. He’s been so afraid to do this for years but when he touches the trunk of the tree it’s just charred wood under his fingers. Nothing sinister, no evil transpiring.

It’s just a fucking tree.

It wasn’t its fault what happened. It was no-one fault. It was just an accident.

Elio sighs, presses his brow against the rough bark, pauses a moment like this. Is he waiting for a sign?

This is ridiculous. He steps back, shakes his head. He won’t find an answer to his problems out here hugging trees.

Maybe it’s just sleep deprivation. Or maybe it’s a leaf. Or a bat.

But just as he turns to walk back towards the house something brushes his face – soft, like a wisp. The air around him feels suddenly heavy, charged with static, and the only sound he can hear is a car grinding on the gravel. But instead of screams and crushing metal there’s laughter wafting in the night, a low rumble overlaid by a throaty chuckle… a man and a woman?

“Mafalda? Anchise?” Elio asks, his voice too loud in the silent night. Are they playing trick son him? But why would they?

Then he hears it, right next to his left ear: “ _Piccino_ , you’ve grown…”

He freezes, his body shivering in a draft of icy air that has the hairs on his body stand on end.

He remembers this voice.

“Mama?”

But, of course, there’s no answer. There’s actually no sound at all, no wind rustling the trees, no owl calling out into the night, the cicadas having fallen silent… he could be the last man on earth at this moment.

He waits. Thinks he hears something again, this time from the direction of the orchard. A whisper?

Then there’s a car going by on the lane outside the gate, loud music blaring from its speakers as voices shriek with laughter…

The spell is broken.

And as much as Elio wants to convince himself that it was all just a dream, or a hoax, or coincidence – he knows it wasn’t.

He also knows that he now will never be able to sell the villa. Because they are still here… somehow. And they are happy. He owes it to them to keep their sanctuary safe.

In the morning when he asks Mafalda if she’s ever encountered something strange in the garden at night she first scolds him for wandering about outside alone at an ungodly hour – and then states that neither she nor Anchise would ever do such a thing. When he presses her to explain why all she tells him is “Alcune cose sono meglio lasciate sole…” before throwing him out of her kitchen.

A voicemail from his lawyer sets an ultimatum: If he doesn’t invite the Americans on Monday they will start looking for another property.

He puts his head in his hands and cries.

Then he drinks a whole bottle of wine with a lunch he doesn’t eat.

Maybe that’s why he snaps when he calls Oliver? He knows he shouldn’t but once he’s started ranting he simply can’t stop. He aware that he sounds irrational but he just needs an outlet for his fears, insecurities and worries.

Oliver becomes his emotional punching bag as one word gives the other…

Oliver mentioning Matteo has him see red. It’s the final straw. How does Oliver dare to accuse him of infidelity when it’s more than likely that he’s already carrying on with someone else, fucking someone else, like he used to do when he first came to New York? He’s the promiscuous one but isn’t it ironic that it had been Elio who’d gotten called a slag by his dad?

Before he even knows what he’s saying he’s breaking off with Oliver.

Blind not only physically but also from despair Elio searches the little nook off the living room until he finds his father’s liquor cabinet, drinking anything he can get his hands on regardless of its taste. This is not about enjoyment, this is about forgetting.

He has no idea how much time passes as he sits on the floor downing Sherry, Gin, Whiskey and some undefinable spirits until he hears the bell on the front door ring.

“Mafalda!” He shouts, scooting further back into the nook. If it’s the lawyer maybe he can hide in here?

But the voice he hears stuttering in bad Italian has him crawl out of his den on all fours (as his legs would somehow not support him anymore).

What the fuck is this now?

He’s still trying to assess if he’s just drunk or truly getting mad when he hears Oliver ask loud and clear only from a few feet away: “Elio, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, they are together again! Now they can sort this mess...


	28. Intermezzo

Dear readers,  
no, sorry, this is not a new chapter for LOME. Sadly, this fic is on hiatus...

Since last Friday, things got pretty ugly for me in the fandom. I got into an argument with a fraction of this fandom that - imo - is a constant source of negativity, bullying, and harassment of fellow fans. Things escalated to the point where I was told to kill myself, that something was wrong with me, and that I'm petty because I dared to criticize the attitude of some very vocal blogs who started to harass writers on here as well. You can see some of it in the comment section of my latest fic Room 116 or on my Tumblr. This happened after at least one other writer received much the same insulting message (which was my reason to write my latest fic). I see a pattern here. People who don't succumb to the opinions of this radical fraction get mobbed in the worst possible way.

And, I have to admit it, I'm not very good in keeping my mouth shut when I see things like that. They really, truly anger me. I find such behaviour rude and disresepctful. I like to think that I'm a supportive and friendly person - but I have to admit I snapped.

This is not the first time I got into a fandom mess. This has happened a few times over the past 2 years. First it were the cmbyn haters, then fractions of the fandom sarted to fight each other. I'm tired. This is not fun anymore. It is ridiculous but hurtful nonetheless. I don't feel safe in this fandom anymore. For me, writing needs an open, honest, accepting atmosphere. I don't feel that anymore in this fandom.

**Therefore, I will take all my cmbyn fics down on Sunday, August 18th.** This is my way of taking a stance against the negative, hateful atmosphere spreading in the fandom. I know it won't probably change anything, but at least I tried to make people aware of what is going on in this fandom. Hate feeds hate to the point where a fandom built on a lovestory becomes an ugly mess.

The only fics that will stay on my account are those I gifted others. Fics with art attached will be orphaned (I think this will be SATSOY, Road Not Taken and A Truth So Loud), which means I won't delete them but leave them on here and will only remove them from my profile.

LOME will also stay for now because it's not finished and I really want to give you an end to this story. But I can't promise when this will happen. At the moment, I simply can't create something for this fandom as it's difficult for me to find the right state of mind to work on Elio and Oliver and their love.

So, if you want to save a fic of mine you liked, I suggest you download it till next Sunday.

I know I'm very likely 'punishing' the wrong people - you, my dear readers, have always been incredibly kind and supportive to me. I met so many lovely people on here. Talking to you, exchanging opinions, screaming in the comments has made my days over the past 2 years. I want to say thank you for everything! This step is not easy for me. I thought the whole weekend about it. I wavered. I doubted. But in the end this feels like the necessary decision for me. I'm deeply sorry. Please, forgive me.

Peace and Love

Kathrin / Isitandwonder


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on in this chapter. They reunite. They talk. They make plans for the future. They fight. They reconcile. They have sex.
> 
> They just love each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends, I'm back! Phew, those last couple weeks have been a rollercoaster fandomwise, haven't they? I hope there's still someone left to read this story.
> 
> I'm better. Thank you for all the lovely messages, they truly meant the world! Yet I needed some distance and regrouping. Which I've done now. I have another 3 chapters of this written which 'just' need some editing. And I have plans for after that as well with this story, so this is far from over.
> 
> I've also not been moping idly in the wings those past few weeks. Instead, I've beta'd an amazing story of a friend who just today posted their second chapter. Do yourself a favor and check out [All That Is Left](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20489885/chapters/48622316) by Mypinkcactus.

Okay, Elio had denied that it was a palazzo – but to Oliver the house that appears in front of him as he walks up the driveway looks very much like one. It even has a fucking turret!

It had not been too difficult to find the place. Crema is a small town. He'd just asked in a few cafes and shops if they knew a man called Elio Perlman, half-American… and blind. Many had told him they’d seen him around, some even remembered the accident, and it didn't take long before the owner of a small bar directed Oliver to the Western outskirts. There, in what Oliver can only describe as a lush park, sat the Villa Albergoni, home to the Perlman family – or what was left of it; their sole heir.

Rhododendron shrubs and grand chestnut trees line the driveway Oliver’s walking up after passing through an open wooden gate, but the tranquil atmosphere of a late summer afternoon is suddenly interrupted when he looks to his left and sees a dead, charred tree trunk, its blackened bark sticking out like an ulcer from the leafy green background. Oliver shudders despite the warm air, wondering if this is the very place Elio's parents died and he lost his sight?

No wonder Elio had sounded so off lately when he had to live in the vicinity of such tragedy. Even if he couldn't see it this place must remind Elio of everything he had lost – not only his eyesight but also the two most important people in his life.

When Oliver pulls the old chain next to the front door a bell starts ringing somewhere inside the house, though it takes a moment until a gray-haired, wiry woman opens.

“Scusa, mi chiamo Oliver Weizmann. Sono venuto per vedere Elio.” Oliver stammers, hoping he's arrived at the right house, because, of course, it being a bloody palazzo, they didn't bother to put up a name plate.

His heart sinks when the woman just mumbles something Oliver doesn’t understand but then she steps aside, beckoning him inside, pointing towards a large room at the right.

“Gracie.” He says before hesitantly walking down the broad corridor and rounds the corner. It seems to be some sort of salon, with plush green sofas, low tables, an old TV set and even a grand piano – but Oliver's eyes are on the small figure crawling up from an oak-paneled nook in the far right corner: Elio.

As if drawn by magnetism, Oliver rushes over to him. Elio reeks of booze and his unfocused eyes are-red-rimmed as if he'd been crying.

“Elio, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The man on the floor freezes, his head raised in Oliver's general direction.

“Oliver?” He sounds as dumbfounded as Oliver feels in this moment. “Is that... really you?”

Oliver sinks to his knees, taking Elio's gaunt face between his hands. God, the boy looks even worse than he'd sounded on the phone.

“Elio, baby, it's me. What is happening here? Are you really drunk at five in the afternoon?”

“Oh, Oliver...” Elio just lungs for him, his hands shaking, clawing at his sweaty t-shirt as he presses his face against Oliver’s neck. “You're real. You're here. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... wait, how _are_ you here?”

Elio pulls back a little. His tousled hair surrounds him like the halo of a spaced-out saint.

“That's a long and complicated story I'll tell you when you're sober again. Come on, get up. I'm sure we'll find some strong coffee for you here. After that, a long cold shower should do the rest.”

When he pulls Elio up he's swaying. “Baby, what did you have?” Oliver is laughing a little but underneath he's worried. So worried. Elio doesn't drink. Yet, as he's obviously wasted right now, something really bad must be going on.

“E-Evrthng.” Elio slurs.

Jesus!

Supporting Elio with his left arm around his slim waist Oliver starts searching for the kitchen. Thankfully, he's met by the woman who opened the door, and from her sharp scolding and Elio's sulking defense he understands that this must be the legendary Mafalda. Oliver manages to convey to her the need for Espresso and she throws her hands up in the air before inviting them into her realm, a large, bright kitchen at the back of the house, overlooking a beautiful garden. Is that a small pool Oliver can spy through what looks like an orchard?

Half an hour later, Elio has downed two cups of strong coffee and sits on an old-fashioned bed, still dripping wet from the shower, shivering a little but much more put together all the same. Oliver is toweling his hair as he listens to him talk. It all comes out in a rush once he'd started – the lawyer, the money problems, his worries about Mafalda and Anchise, the American buyers...

Oliver can read Elio’s anxiety and tension in his knotted shoulder muscles.

“Okay, let me see if I understood everything. You own this house and it needs repairs. You'll get the money to have them done in about a year when you turn twenty-one. But right now a lawyer is pressuring you to sell up. And that would mean Mafalda and Anchise have to leave.”

Elio nods, twisting his long fingers in his lap.

“Is there something else?”

“It'll sound crazy.”

“Try me.”

“There's this tree... near the driveway... did you see it when you came up here?”

“You mean that... burned tree?”

Elio just nods again, biting his lip, wet streaks of hair hiding the rest of his face so Oliver can’t read his expression. He strokes down Elio’s spine, his fingers bumping over every vertebrae, drawing goosebumps in its wake.

“Is that where... it happened?” He asks carefully.

“Yes... that's where... they died. I was out there last night, after avoiding that place, this place, for almost seven years. And I think I heard... or felt... something.” His voice is so low Oliver can barely hear him. “I think they were... there. You know? Maybe waiting for me or... I don't know. It sounds as if I'm losing my mind and maybe's the stress or the lack of sleep or my fucked brain playing up but... Oliver, I knew in that moment that I simply can’t sell this house. But I can't afford to keep it either... what am I to do?”

He sounds so forlorn and hopeless that all Oliver can do is hug him. He thinks about being virtually homeless himself, without a place to return to after these few months in Italy are over, and what he would do to own a house like this – even more so if it were the place he was born and experienced the untainted summers of his youth...

Suddenly, he has an idea. It's very vague right now but... it could work? Only, presenting it to Elio would mean to confess his own problems, to give Elio information he intentionally withheld. To come clean.

A fly lands on Elio's naked thigh and Oliver swats it away before saying: “Listen, I've something to tell you as well... I haven't been honest with you.”

Elio stiffens, tensing up even more.

“I feel really shit about it. I should have told you earlier but I was just too embarrassed-”

“I don't want to know. If you've been with someone else, Oliver, I don't want to know.” Elio blurts out, balling his hands into fists.

“What...? No...! No, Elio, it's not that.” He kisses his shoulder blade, starting to massage his lower back. “Never that... but... it's about the apartment. I told you my father pays for it. Well, paid, I've to say. Because he stopped. So I had to move out.”

Oliver stares at his fingers kneading Elio's skin, a little more tanned than back in New York now, and doesn't dare to look up. He waits.

It doesn't take long for Elio to connect the dots. He does it in the worst possible way as Oliver had feared.

“Because of me, right? Because he found me at your place and-”

“No!” Oliver says it so loud that Elio jumps a little. “Not because of you. Don't you say that. It's because of him. Because he's a bigoted, autocratic asshole who can't accept people leading lives different from him. It's probably not even about my sexuality. It's that I defy his views and believes. And when I don't toe the line my punishment is withdrawal of affection – or in his case, money.” He gently kisses Elio's nape. “Which means we're kinda vagrants.”

Elio chews on this a bit.

“So you moved out?”

“I put most of the stuff in storage. You ballet barre is safe.” He smiles into Elio's wet curls.

Elio huffs. “Thank you... but, where're you staying now? Why are you _here_?” He turns a little towards Oliver.

He quickly explains the offer he'd got from the Academia. “It's just for the summer... but now I think... you know, the students come from all over the world to study in Italy. And maybe, with this house... we could do something like that as well? Offer some kind of art holidays or something? Four week classes? It's beautiful here, and the house is big enough from what I've seen... Americans and Asians would love it. It's a palazzo... no, don't, for people like me it is. Being allowed to stay in such a house and even getting taught something about art on top... we could try that, give it a go, for a year. And then, when you can access your money, you can decide if you want to continue or sell up. But it would be your decision and you had time to make up your mind.”

“What would that mean? That you stayed here for a year? Because I'll go to Paris in August.”

“There's nothing waiting for me in New York, Elio. I can ask for temporary leave with Cooper Union... we did that after Rachel died. And as I don't even have a place to live there anymore...” Oliver shrugs, then remembers Elio can't see it. “Nothing keeps me there. But this is a chance to start something new.” _‘For both of us’._ He has no idea where it comes form but he suddenly feels quite confident about the whole idea. “I could use my connections to get the word out that there'll be some kind or artist retreat in Lombardy in autumn.”

“I like that. I'm sure my parents would like that too.” A small smile plays on Elio's lips.

“And Mafalda?”

“She'll say she hates all those bohemian hippies wandering around her house but inwardly she'd love it.”

“And with the money we make from it we can keep things running until you come into full possession of your funds.”

“I guess we should talk to a lawyer about all of it.” Elio sounds excited, enthusiastic even.

“Just maybe not to the one who wants to sell out to the Americans.”

“Right. We'll find someone else. If... you'll help me with it?”

“The train to Milan takes only one hour. I can commute. And assist you when I'm here.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were in Milan in the first place?” Elio asks tentatively.

Oliver exhales, rubbing Elio's knobby shoulder joint. “Oh, I wanted to tell you… at first. But… you’re not the easiest person when it comes to accept help. And when you told me you needed to do this on your own… I didn't want to seem like a stalker, following you. And I didn't want to tell you that I wasn't even able to find a place to live for us in New York. Or that my dad had kicked me out. I worried… that you would blame yourself for it which is bullshit but I know you. You needed to concentrate on your performance. And I felt like such a loser... the longer I kept quiet the worse it got. Then you had so much on your plate prior to leaving and the opportunity to tell you about the apartment never arose. Not that I tried to make it happen.”

“It's not your fault either. I wanted to be so mature but I lacked the maturity to ask for help when I was truly out of my depth.”

“You don't have to do these things alone, Elio. You're allowed to ask for help. I won't think less of you.”

Elio's leans back against Oliver. “It's not easy. When you're literally dependent on people twenty-four hours a day you start to loath it. I wanted to proof... I don't really know anymore. I didn’t want to burden you with my problems, I guess. I was stupid. I'm just so glad you're here now, providing a new perspective.” He turns, and when he straddles Oliver lap, naked, Oliver pulls him close. “Thank you, Oliver.” Elio’s voice drops dangerously low. “Any idea how I can make it up to you? There are a lot of tables in this house.”

“I'm sure there are... but not tonight, baby. It's all been a bit much, not only for you...”

“But you will stay the night?”

“Of course.” Oliver kisses Elio on the tip of his nose, then aims lower, but his amorous advances are rudely interrupted by a bell ringing from downstairs.

“We’re being called for dinner.” As Elio gets up Oliver marvels at Mafalda’s obvious effect on his boy. He needs to have a word with her to learn a few of her tricks. “Let’s get dressed.”

Mafalda has cooked them what she describes as a simple dinner (Oliver's limited Italian just makes him understand that she seems to mutter about the inconvenience of unexpected guests while shooting Elio fond looks) that turns out to be a delicious five-course meal. Afterwards, they assure her that she doesn’t need to bother setting up a room for Oliver (which earns him a stern once-over before she shrugs and turns around to clean up, smiling just the faintest).

They sprint up the stairs to escape her. At least for Oliver, it has been hard not to touch Elio, now that he’s so close again. But he didn’t even dare to slide his foot on top of Elio’s, sitting primly at the table, in fear of the awe-inspiring housekeeper.

“So, this was your room?” Oliver has switched on the lamp on the nightstand and looks around. There are posters of sport stars, cars, musicians – and a print of Robert Mapplethorpe next to an old oil painting showing a hilly landscape. The shelves hold books and CDs you'd expect to find in the room of a young teenager (Harry Potter, Nicki Minaj) as well as books and CDs you wouldn't expect (Fernando Pessoa, H.P. Lovecraft, a recording of the Bussoni Charconne). An old stuffed toy (a puppy? It’s hard to tell as it has been loved almost to death) sits on the bed, almost hidden underneath a pillow. 

Elio seems to have been an unusual kid.

That is not really a surprise though.

“Yep.” Elio pops the P, one hand on the bedpost, his fingers tapping the wood. Is he nervous?

There's also a photograph of a couple holding hands – the man with short black hair, glasses and a full beard, the woman with dark-brown hair, intelligent eyes and a somewhat mysterious smile Oliver has seen on Elio's face so many times – his parents, obviously. No one has removed the picture despite Elio being unable to see it.

Somehow it seems time has stood still in this room.

“I guess we have to share a toothbrush.” Elio says, smiling a little sheepishly.

Oliver takes this as his cue and so is already finished in the bathroom, stretching out on the two single beds he has pushed together, when Elio emerges a few minutes later, stark naked. Somewhere in the house a door bangs but he doesn’t bat an eyelid as he crawls into bed.

“What have you done to the place? It’s nice.” Elio’s hands wander the mattress. “Where are you?”

“Here.” Oliver reaches for him and pulls him close until Elio's chin rests on his sternum, his fingertips raking through the coarse hair on his chest.

“I was thinking... as you don't want to make use of the tables tonight, how else I could make your trip out here worthwhile...”

Oliver grins and kisses Elio’s brow. “I told you, baby, there’s no need for that. I’m just happy that we’re finally together.” His eyes wander over to the bedside table as he remembers he should better charge his phone. There sits a pot of something…

“Vaseline? Have you been naughty, Elio Perlman?” He takes it in hand and turns it over. It’s half-empty.

“A little. But I was thinking of you, Professor Weizmann.” Elio purrs.

“I was thinking of you, too. A lot.”

Elio snickers before he says: “I mean, we could… you know… just a little…”

“Just a little _what_?”

“You could jerk me off… Or I could jerk off and you could watch. Would you like that, Professor Weizmann?”

Elio has moved back a little and is now reclining on his elbows, spreading his legs in invitation, his fingertips trailing down his flat stomach until they reach the dark tuft of wiry hair. His cock is already swelling nicely.

Oliver licks his lips.

“Would you like that?” Elio asks again, his fingers wrapping around his shaft. The head is glistening as he strokes lazily, his free hand circling his left nipple.

“Yes, baby...”

The smile on Elio's face turns lewd as his eyelids flutter and he bites his lip. The hand playing with his cock reaches out. “Vaseline, please.”

Oliver puts the pot in his palm. Elio slicks his hand up before resuming his teasing, his fingers forming a tight, slippery channel to fuck into.

Oliver starts to mimic him, searching for the pot of Vaseline carelessly discarded between the sheets.

God, this feels good!

Elio is panting by now, a blush spreading all the way down his neck, turning his chest a blotchy pink. As if he got sunburn.

Oliver's hands speeds up watching his boy. Elio adds a twist to each upstroke, falling back onto the mattress, spreading his legs even wider. Oliver gets a prime view of his twitching pink rim, contracting with every tug, and suddenly Elio's free hand is not playing with his nipple anymore. Instead, his fingers are rubbing over his balls, his taint, angling for his hole, and then his hips buck up and he moans, 'Oliver!' as he pushes the tip of his index finger inside while his fist blurs on his cock. He comes hard, spraying white goo all over his stomach.

This is simply too much for Oliver, who can just scoot over and lean up in time before decorating Elio's face with his own cum seconds later. Elio opens his mouth and even sticks out his tongue as if on autopilot, a Pavlovian reflex to catch the most of Oliver’s release.

He’s not that successful, though, and thick white ribbons cover his cheeks and brow as a result.

Oliver grins as he lies down next to him, dipping his fingers into the mess on Elio's belly while the boy is busy licking up the pearly streaks coating his face, like the cat who got all the cream.

“I missed this.”

“Me too.”

This night, it's Elio who spoons Oliver in the large bed, moonlight streaming in from the garden, the fragrant night air caressing Oliver's heated skin.

“I'm glad you came.” Elio speaks against his nape, biting a tendon.

“I'm glad I came, too.” Oliver answers and then they both dissolve into giggles because this is just too much to bear on a Sunday they both had thought would end quite differently.

In the silence that lingers after they’ve calmed down Oliver suddenly feels the need to say: “Listen, Elio… whatever we’re going to do over the next twelve months… I want you to know that… that I don’t expect you to live like a monk. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He fixes his eyes on the crown of a tree barely visible through the window blinds as he waits for Elio’s reaction.

Apparently, it takes a moment for the other shoe to drop. “What? No… I… Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Elio's hand caressing Oliver’s leg stills. “What the actual fuck, Oliver!” Elio explodes, the warmth of his body suddenly gone as he sits up.

“I just want to… Elio, I’m only saying I’m giving you freedom to explore. You’ll be-“

“How very gracious of you, Oliver.” Elio spits, and then his small fist punches Oliver’s chest with surprising force and accuracy.

“Ugh… shit, Elio. That hurt.”

“Why are you always saying things like that, Oliver?” Elio sounds and looks scared and upset, cradling his hand against his own heaving chest. “Is it because I should grant you the same in return? Well, tough luck, I won’t.”

He gets up and walks into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door open so Oliver can hear the taps running. He gives him a minute before following.

Elio is leaning against the sink, his hand under the running water. His curls hide most of his face.

“Elio, of course I’m expecting nothing like this from you in return. I just wanted to give you carte blanche. Because I truly believe that you should gain more experience. I don’t want you to feel bad for it when the opportunity arises and you snatch it. I don’t want to deny you what I had – freedom to explore.”

“You think I need more experience… Am I not good enough in bed? Didn’t you enjoy what we just did?”

“Elio…” Oliver can’t keep standing in the open door, he has to walk up to his lover and hug him from behind. Elio lets him. “That’s really not what I was trying to say. I just don’t want you to regret things, missing out.”

“I don’t want anyone but you, Oliver.” Elio whispers, his voice thick.

“Yes, that’s what you think now. And I’m flattered. But after three months alone in Paris you might reconsider. And I just want to tell you that it’s okay. I want to reassure you to pursue such feelings should they arise. Just… be safe. And don’t tell me. Not when it means nothing in the end and I don’t need to know. That’s all I’m saying. I want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy with you, Oliver.” When Elio turns the water off Oliver takes a towel and gently pads his hand dry.

“Twelve months is a very long time when you're just twenty, Elio. And we won’t be able to see each other often. Neither of us has much money to travel and you’ll be training a lot. And I will work here, I hope. I just don’t want you to feel bad should you… go astray.”

Elio pulls his hand back from his grip. “Well, _I_ want you to feel bad when you cheat on me. I want you to feel awful, to regret it, to be ashamed. I want you to suffer. Though, honestly, I just don’t want you to be with someone else at all. You’d kill me if you do that.”

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think? Give it a few weeks and then you’ll see-” Oliver tries to make light of his words but Elio is not having it.

“No, not dramatic at all, Oliver! If you don’t know by now… I’m in love with you, you stupid man. I can wait a year for you. What I feel for you won’t be diluted by time or distance. Over the last few weeks I’ve realized that it’s you. That person you talked about, that is found only once. You are this person for me. So… just shut up, you… and come back to bed.” Elio grabs his hand and pulls him vigorously back into the bedroom.

In bed, Elio hugs him again from behind when he gets under the covers, maybe even a little tighter than before. Somewhere in the house a stair creaks and then the rustling of leaves outside the open window and Elio’s feather-light breathing is all Oliver can hear as he drifts off to sleep.

The next day, Elio calls his lawyer before Oliver leaves for the station, telling him the deal is off. At the Academia Oliver takes Lucia for lunch, inquiring about their foreign exchange programs and if there might be interest in him doing something freelanced a bit more permanently.

“You know, there's this lovely old villa that belongs to my boyfriend and we thought...”

 

When he returns to Crema in the evening, Elio is sitting at a garden table under a chestnut tree, earphones plugged in, a half-empty glass of apricot juice in front of him. As he doesn’t hear Oliver approach he takes his time to look his fill: the dark curls, longer than ever before, maybe even long enough to be tied into a short ponytail, some streaks bleached by the sun, shimmering red-gold; the freckles strewn across the back of his nose; the hint of stubble on his upper lip; his tanned face, still gaunt but hopefully filling out a bit thanks to Mafalda’s cooking. He sits quite still, his green eyes open, blinking from time to time, his lashes fanning out over his cheeks while his index finger taps out the beat of the song he’s listening to on the armrest of his wrought-iron chair. He’s beautiful, serene, relaxed.

And yes, he looks happy.

Oliver has no idea how he deserves all of this – and he has even less of an idea where it might lead him, but right now, if he can come home to Elio every day like this, he’d be a very lucky man.

A smile spreads on his face as he takes another step towards Elio, gently touching his shoulder. He jumps a little at the surprise, pulling his earphones out, looking up in the vague direction where Oliver stands, his eyes bright yet unfocused.

“Oliver.” It’s not a question. Oliver watches Elio’s face light up with recognition before he leans in to give the light of his life an eagerly reciprocated kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, I have some more chapters of this written already. But due to life I can't promise an update schedule. I hope for once a week though. We'll see. Thank you for sticking around!


	30. Chapter Thrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver start work on the villa. Oh, and it's Oliver's birthday... (which leads to rather questionable lube choices).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments on the resurrection of this story!

Elio can't describe just how good it feels to have Oliver with him. It's such a relief to be able to share his worries, discuss questions, weigh the pros and cons of decisions with another person's help instead of being solely responsible.

One of Oliver's colleagues who had to liquidate an old aunt’s bequeathment recommends a law firm in Milan specializing in dealing with complicated inheritance cases, so they transfer the whole business with the villa and the money to them. Surprisingly, as they go over the deeds, they dig up funds Elio's old lawyer had somewhat 'missed' to mention.

Elio is furious and on the brink to start a law suit but in the end listens to Oliver who talks him out of it.

“Hey, I understand. You feel taken advantage off. But let's look forward, okay, not backwards. Taking him to court will only tie you up in things better forgotten. With these funds from your dad we... you... might be able to pay basic renovations. Anchise and I have already started to refurbish the rooms on the second floor.”

It's true. Most evenings and on the weekends Oliver spends hours and hours with Anchise, painting walls, smoothing and varnishing the old wooden doors, mending the plumbing of unused bathrooms, and sorting out old broken furniture, replacing it with pieces from all over the house and the attic, where they've found beds, wardrobes, chairs and desks that must have been bought by Elio's grandfather but got set aside when tastes changed in the 1970s and 80s.

The wood feels warm under Elio fingers when he explores the intricate carvings, imagining how the sun must reflect from the polished surfaces. He thinks he remembers some or the furniture from playing hide and seek with his cousins as a child up here. Everything had been covered with white linen blankets, making the attic look like a giant ghost train. It had been some sort of dare to go up here, put to him by his teenage relatives. One of his best hide-outs had been in an enormous oak wardrobe that had smelled of moth balls and a hint of sweet perfume. His mother had been reading Narnia to him around that time and he somehow had hoped that he might find the entrance to a magical world if he prodded long enough at its back panel.

“There's enough furniture up here to deck out at least three to four guest rooms. The woodwork is beautiful. I guess from the 1920s?” Oliver sounds enchanted. “It just needs a good wipe-down and some sanding.”

When Elio insists to help with that Oliver seems hesitant but Anchise just hands him a block covered with sanding paper and leads him towards a table where he is to work on the surface.

“Just go in even circles, Elio. Round and round. That's it. Until it feels smooth to your touch.” Anchise never makes any fuss about his blindness, just treats him as he would anyone else. His trust fills Elio both with confidence and thankfulness.

Soon, the warm attic smells of wood, dust, polish and sweat as they grind mostly in silence, a radio playing Italian pop music. Despite the rough sand paper scraping Elio's palm he enjoys doing this with the other men. Manual labor, he realizes, can be quite satisfying.

Oliver apologizes at the end of the afternoon when he inspects Elio's work. “I'm sorry that I thought you couldn't help us. By now I should know that there are not many things you can't do.”

“Well, I won't paint walls, I promise.” Elio is rubbing lotion into his aching fingers until Oliver grabs one of his hands and kisses his knuckles, his tongue licking his newly acquired callouses.

“Never say never.”

The next evening, Oliver explains to him about something he calls wipe technique. “You take a sponge soaked with paint and rub it all over the wall. It doesn't have to be evenly. It looks rather good when applied quite bold.”

Elio has so much fun wiping the walls it ends in another paint fight and Oliver sucking him off in a corner of the second story hallway while they can hear Anchise sawing and hammering one floor below. When Elio comes, Oliver covers his mouth with his huge palm to keep him quiet until Elio has stopped shaking from the aftershocks.

Mafalda later comments on his stained clothes, asking Elio if he rolled over the walls with his whole body, telling him that she has no idea if the paint will wash out. Elio blushes, coughs and mumbles something about being clumsy before quickly retreating to take a shower and put his jeans and t-shirt into the bathtub for a soak.

 

Next Sunday, when Elio wakes up, he has to discover that he’s alone in bed.

“Oliver?”

But the other side of the mattress is already cold.

There are strange noises coming from downstairs, like wood creaking and something heavy being dragged over the stone floor, so Elio quickly puts on shorts and a t-shirt and makes his way into the kitchen.

“Mafalda? Anchise?” But no one answers, though he can smell coffee. Someone must be up then.

He hears some huffing and squeaking again, and then something crashes onto the floor with a loud bang. Someone is cursing under their breath. Oliver?

When Elio follows the racket he realizes that it comes from the large salon where they used to watch TV. As he walks in Oliver greets him.

“Hey, you’re up?” He sounds like he went for a run, out of breath. Also, no ‘babe’, no kiss, so someone must be in the room with them.

“What’s going on?” Elio asks warily. He feels around for the sofa that should be standing to his right but it’s gone.

“Oh, we’re just clearing the space. I thought… well, as we don’t watch TV often but there’s a stereo in here, and the piano, so if we moved the furniture you could… dance. Might do you good, to start training again. I hope that’s okay?”

Elio feels his face break into a big smile. “Oh, Oliver.” He takes a step into the direction where his lover’s voice comes from, smelling his fresh sweat as he gets closer. He’s about to launch himself at Oliver to kiss him when he hears him say: “Anchise here helped me. And Mafalda is just getting the hoover.”

Elio stops in his tracks, hearing Oliver’s warning that they are not alone. So he slowly turns around with arms outstretched. “This is a very good idea. Thank you. I really need to start training again. I slacked.”

There’s some more shoving of armchairs and tables and a lot more swearing and then Mafalda comes back and sends them all into the kitchen so she can clean up while they have coffee.

“The French windows let in a lot of light. So when you're not here we can use the room for painting classes.” Oliver explains, his foot stroking Elio's beneath the kitchen table.

When Oliver excuses himself after their second Espresso and goes upstairs to take a shower Elio follows him to show his gratitude with his mouth around Oliver’s cock and two fingers up his ass while the hot spray descends on both of them.

From that day on, Elio practices at least two hours a day while the rest of the house naps after lunch. Anchise has drilled a barre onto one wall so Elio can do his exercise. He’s careful not to turn up his music too loud as not to disturb the others sleeping but he’s sure that on the weekends Oliver watches him silently instead of dozing up in their room or in the garden. That’s when he puts in some extra effort to stretch and spin and bend.

When he comes upstairs afterwards Oliver often ambushes him before he has a chance to shower, licking and kissing him all over which usually ends in a languid blowjob.

 

Besides all the work on the villa they also find time to go swimming in the river with Elio's cousins (which Elio now enjoys because Oliver is there to watch over him and prevent him from drowning, always staying close to him in the water) or to go out at night dancing. Everyone has welcomed Oliver as Elio's friend from New York with open arms and typical Italian joviality, yet Elio and Oliver stay vigilant. Elio doesn't dare to dance like he does in New York, for example. He can't assess how the people around them would react to two men kissing or holding hands. So they just steal touches, brotherly hugs, and as Elio needs someone to guide him it's only natural that he often puts his hand on Oliver's arm or shoulder or slips his hand into Oliver’s.

But that's all the physical contact they allow themselves in front of others. There are no kisses, no endearments in public, not even in front of Mafalda or Anchise. Elio is both ashamed and grateful that Oliver plays along. It's not that they've even talked about it. The caution just established itself between them as a means of survival.

Because Elio sometimes hears his friends and relatives talk about _'froci'_ – not in an outright insulting way but still with an amused, bewildered undertone. So he and Oliver keep their relationship under wraps for the time being. Only when alone they let go – and of course they sleep in the same bed. Yet in the mornings Elio sneaks next door to crumple the sheets in the adjacent room so Mafalda won't suspect anything going on.

It's somewhat strange and feels a little degrading but they only have to play this charade for a few more weeks until Elio’s departure.

When they draw up the deed with the notary that will allow Oliver beneficial use of the property as well as making certain financial decisions while Elio is in Paris, Elio learns that it's Oliver birthday in two days, a Saturday. He knew that it was in July but not the exact date, and he’d almost forgotten over all the business with the renovation.

After Oliver has left for Milan on Friday, Elio has enough time to conspire with Mafalda, deciding on a special dinner – fish soup, Tortelli Cremaschi, lamb chops, and a peach tart with vanilla sauce for dessert – before asking Anchise to help him clean up the attic up in the tower at the back of the villa above the kitchen.

In the past, this has been another of Elio's spots. He'd come up here to read, dosing on the old mattress, carpets, and garden cushions stored here while the sun shone through the blinds on hot summer days – and, yes, to jerk off. As they swipe the creaking floorboards before Anchise carries up a table and two chairs Elio even finds his old radio still sitting on a low shelf. He remembers listening to Seria A games up here on stifling afternoons, cheering for AC Milan, and smiles.

When Anchise has left, grumbling something Elio can't understand as he descends the narrow staircase, Elio feels for the mattress he knows must still be leaning against the far wall. He has to drag a bundled-up rug to the side before he can carefully lower the old box-spring monstrosity onto the floor.

Despite their efforts to clean the place the dust makes him cough.

Back downstairs, he raids Mafalda's linen cupboard – the sheets smelling of bleach and chamomile – spreading them over the makeshift bed in the attic. He’s found some candles in the kitchen cupboards a few days ago by chance while searching for a bottle opener and now puts them on the table.

Oliver is a romantic after all.

He smiles when he's finished, quite pleased with the arrangement he hopes looks as good as he imagines.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, their limbs entangled beneath the covers, Elio kisses Oliver tenderly.

“Happy birthday, love.”

Oliver just sighs and tousles his hair.

Elio grins as he slides down Oliver's warm body to give him a celebratory blowjob. His cock is heavy and limp in his mouth at first but quickly fills out, tasting of briny precome before the sweat-sour zest of Oliver floods Elio's mouth, thick and creamy and delicious.

“Breakfast in bed.” He whispers against Oliver's mouth to make him open up, their tongues twisting as they share Oliver's release.

“You're impossible.” Oliver giggles. “Was that my present?”

“No, I've prepared the real surprise for tonight.” Elio grins, feeling quite smug.

When they eventually come down for a real breakfast Mafalda takes Elio aside and tells him that she got what he asked for, and that she has put it in the second kitchen drawer from the right. Elio nods and thanks her, hugging her tight as she pinches his cheek.

Outside on the terrace, Mafalda serves an apple pie made with fruit from the orchard and they all sing _Happy Birthday_ for Oliver, Elio kissing him on the mouth in the end with a loud smack, for a moment forgetting to be cautious.

Later, he lets Oliver and Anchise work on the ancient wiring on the second floor all day while he and Mafalda prepare tonight's dinner, cooking a broth for the soup before rolling out the dough for the pasta from which Elio tries to nibble, so Mafalda relegates him to stir the batter for the cake. They work together in peaceful silence until the cook suddenly says: “You and Ulliva... you're such a lovely couple. He's a good man. I'm sure your parents would really like him.” She quickly pats his hand and then he can hear her rummaging around in one of the cupboards.

Elio feels himself go hot all over. “So you... know... about us?”

Mafalda cackles. “Elio, tesoro, it’s not me who’s blind here. I know you're trying to be discrete but it's not really working. And the way he looks at you... Madonna!” There's a smacking sound as she probably clasps her hands together in front of her bosom, a gesture Elio remembers from when he was a child and presented her with a picture he had painted for her.

“And you don't... mind?” He's put the pastry bowl down on the counter, his hand still clutching the wooden spoon.

Mafalda sighs. “I know what the church says but the priests are all doing it as well, and with little ragazzi that is. You can't trust what these men say. It's the pot calling the kettle black. No, what they do is in fact much, much worse, and they still preach that boys like you and Oliver will burn in hell. That doesn't seem right. I don't want to know what you do in bed, Elio, but as you both seem happy it's not for me to judge, is it?”

As he hears her putter about again he slowly resumes his stirring. A few minutes go by before he dares to ask: “And Anchise?”

“That old goat is probably playing for your team anyway.” Mafalda chuckles. “Or have you ever seen him with a woman? No? There you have it. I remember, when he was younger, he would go down to Sicily over Christmas and come back much more... relaxed. What do I know what he did there? Don't ask, don't tell.”

Elio slowly exhales. “Grazie.” He whispers.

There's a pause in which Mafalda briefly touches his shoulder before scolding him that he did it all wrong with the batter and that she hopes he didn't ruin the cake. But she sounds fond when she does so Elio knows she doesn't really mean it.

Elio meets Oliver in the kitchen at eight in the evening. They've both showered, and while Oliver was in the bathroom Elio has set up the food in the attic with Mafalda's help before she and Anchise did retire to the little cottages down by the gate where they live.

Elio and Oliver have the house to themselves tonight.

Elio can smell Oliver's soap and shampoo – spicy and fresh – when he walks into the kitchen.

“So, my surprise?” He asks.

Elio reaches for him. “Follow me.”

He finds the small, low door with ease and leads Oliver up to the attic. Here, the stench of mold and dust has been replaced with the scent of beeswax from the burning candles and the sweetness of the summer flowers Mafalda had placed on the table.

“Oh.” Oliver exhales when they've arrived upstairs.

“I hope you like it?” Elio shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He's never prepared a birthday surprise for... anyone. He hopes he did it right.

“It's beautiful.” Oliver's arms come around his waist. “When did you...?”

“In the afternoon, when you were busy. Mafalda helped me – a lot.” He laughs a little, feeling somewhat shy all of a sudden.

“Thank you! This is...,” Oliver sounds a little choked up. “This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.” He presses a soft kiss to Elio's lips before nudging his nose. “And now I'm starving.” He tenderly bites Elio's chin before stepping back. A chair is raked over the floor and then Oliver takes Elio's hand and guides him to his seat.

They sit opposite each other, only their feet touching under the table as they make their way through the different courses. Oliver sighs and groans with pleasure and Elio chuckles, downplaying the effort it took to prepare all of this.

When they've arrived at the lamb chops, Oliver's naked toes climb up Elio's shin, urging him to slip out of his espadrilles as well to reciprocate the action.

It's a bit distracting, but they keep talking about the house, the repairs that still need to be done, the emails Oliver has send out to friends and colleagues to spread the word that he's setting up an artist’s retreat in Northern Italy – to Elio's relief, the response so far has been surprisingly successful.

“It looks like we can start the first course in September. We already have five confirmed bookings and another three people are interested. Apparently, a palazzo in Italy draws customers.”

Elio huffs a laugh but has stopped to protest a while ago. Let Oliver have his palazzo! “How many do we need to break even?” They've drawn up a business plan, calculating the earnings needed to keep the project afloat.

“With the fees we charge - four. So it's looking really well. If this works out fine I hope we can fill another course over Christmas and New Year.” Oliver sounds excited and Elio feels warmth spread in his stomach. It's as if a heavy weight is suddenly lifted from his shoulders. This thing could really work.

When Elio is more poking his cake than eating it and Oliver declares he's so full he thinks he might be unable to eat for days Elio announces that he has another gift for Oliver.

“But I think I need a grappa first.”

The digestive burns down his throat while tidying up his guts nicely. The warm feeling inside him intensifies.

“Over there, in the corner.”

If Oliver had recognized the makeshift bed before, he didn't say. But now Elio hears him get up and walk over.

“Pull the covers back.”

“Oh.” Mafalda had the shopkeeper wrap the sketch book and case of graphite pencils in tissue paper. Elio hears it rustle as Oliver picks it up.

“Open it.” Elio bites his lip as he listens to Oliver tearing the delicate wrapping apart. “I'm not sure the light is good enough but that might be actually flattering.”

He gets up as well, already unbuttoning his good dress shirt – striped pink and white - he'd put on for the occasion.

“Thank you.” Oliver sounds a little confused as Elio hears him leaf through the pad, the paper swishing. “What are you-?”

“It's been a while since I posed for you...” Elio drops his shirt on the floor before reaching for Oliver, who takes his hand, pulling him over to the mattress. As his naked toes touch the covers he starts to unbutton his jeans. “I thought you might want to draw me again...?”

He pulls his trousers down – he didn't bother with underwear – and lies down on the fresh sheets.

“Oh, Elio...” Oliver's hand touches the top of his naked thigh but Elio swats it away.

“No touching. Just your eyes on me.” He licks his lips as he reclines, knees bend, legs spread, one arm behind his head, the other placed loosely low on his belly, his fingertips just grazing his wiry pubes.

“You’re killing me.” Oliver protests but his hand is gone. “Let me get a candle.” Elio hears him pull a chair over. Then it's just the scratching of a pencil on the thick drawing paper.

“Don't move.” Oliver says sternly when Elio dares to stretch a little.

“But my arm is falling asleep.”

“Tough luck, babe. Don't. Move.”

Elio stills. He knows this voice and tries as best he can to hold still.

It's a bit like being tied up. Yet now he stays in position not because he's forced by ropes – but out of his own free will. To please Oliver. To obey him. He has to admit that the situation excites him. And his cock, that starts filling.

Which is something Oliver doesn’t reprimand him for.

Instead he says: “Very good.” The pencil seems to pause. Is Oliver looking, just adding some finishing touches, shading and accentuating? “I think you're even more beautiful now than in the spring. Italy becomes you.”

“I'm not in good shape.” Elio answers, trying not to squirm, not to touch his by now aching cock. “I should train more.”

“No, I think it's good for you to relax a little. To recharge.”

“I've been lazy. Next month I'll be in Paris, and if I resemble a sack of potatoes no one will bother to teach me anything. They'll just laugh at me a boot me out.” Elio is only half-joking.

But Oliver chuckles. “You're a string bean, not a sack of potatoes.”

“You're partial, I can't trust your judgment.” Elio smiles nonetheless, Oliver's compliment quieting his anxiety at least for a moment.

When Oliver falls silent for a few minutes again it doesn't unsettle Elio. He just lies there and baths in the knowledge that Oliver finds him beautiful and adorable while he listens to the pencil capturing his looks on paper.

Eventually, he hears Oliver say. “Finished.”

“I hope you like it?”

“It'll tide me over when you're away.”

“Let's not... talk about it anymore. Not tonight. I don't want to think about leaving… here. Let's just cherish the moment, and what we have.”

“Oh, I totally intend to.”

Elio senses Oliver move closer but it's still a shock when his fully clothed body lowers himself onto Elio's naked skin.

“Can you stay still for me a little while longer, baby?” Oliver asks, his mouth so close to Elio's ear that he can feel the wet heat of his breath. He swallows, his throat tight, nods. He'll do anything Oliver tells him.

“My beautiful boy.”

The atmosphere has changed, the light banter of the drawing session replaced by something darker, more primal.

“You're all I want. My most precious gift.” 

Then Oliver is gone and Elio awaits what might come next, daring to wrap one hand loosely around his cock. Yet his brain doesn't comprehend what's happening when something hot hits his sternum. It's not outright painful but it stings.

“What...?” Elio huffs, giggles, but his laugh is cut off when Oliver kisses him again.

“On your hands and knees, baby, please.”

Elio obliges, wondering what Oliver is going to do to him. With a mild shock he feels hot liquid drip down his arched spine, burning his sensitive skin. “Ouch.”

“Shhh, baby. Be still.” Two fingers enter his mouth and Elio starts to suck on them to calm down.

Only then does Elio realize that Oliver must be pouring hot wax over him. He whimpers, hums, hisses and moans while Oliver decorates his body with molten wax, and as the substance dries and coagulates the taut sensation almost drives him crazy.

His cock feels full and heavy, obviously enjoying Oliver’s wicked game, and when he finally drips hot wax over Elio's ass cheeks he's suddenly on the verge of coming.

“Ahhh!” Elio gasps, and Oliver removes his fingers just before Elio can bite down on them. “ _OhgodOhgodOhgod!_ ”

“Baby... You're so beautiful like this. A vision. I've never seen anyone sexier than you.” Oliver sounds as desperate as Elio feels before his two still wet fingers slip inside him. Elio presses back against them, whimpering, clamping down on the intrusion while Oliver’s free hand strokes the intricate pattern of dried wax on Elio’s back. He really tries to last longer, but it’s futile, especially when Oliver tells him "Fuck yourself on my fingers, baby, yeah, that’s it, take them nice and deep, spread your legs for me, let me in, this is only the beginning, I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow, so I’ll keep you in bed all day and play with your cock until you beg me to fuck you again despite still being sore, and you’ll moan like a slut when I push into you to breed you raw."

Elio can’t stop himself, he explodes, almost crying with the intensity of his orgasm, siting back and up to touch himself, coating his fingers with a huge load of cum.

“Oliver?” Elio twists around, by now cold wax peeling off of his skin, searching for Oliver’s warm body to curl up against. And Oliver is right there, cradling him, kissing his face, his hair.

“You okay?” He asks, wiping Elio’s sticky hand over his own chest, his wiry hair tickling Elio’s palm.

Elio just nods, too blissed out to speak.

After another kiss, Oliver gets up, moves around. When Elio reaches out, still trembling, he just touches thin air.

“Where-?”

“There's finally a table I can have you over.” It's almost a growl.

“Yes! God, yes.”

He doesn't care for the china crashing onto the floorboards as Oliver almost throws him over the table, kicking his feet apart to spread his legs.

“We don't have lube.” Oliver huffs, sounding desperate.

Shit! Elio has forgotten to stash some up here…

“Use the vanilla sauce, for fuck's sake.”

The next second, Oliver's fingers lather Elio's hole with a thick dollop of creamy, luke-warm sauce, pressing against the already loosened muscle, but it’s just a few thrusts before there's some fabric rustling and then the fingers are replaced with Oliver's big cock.

Elio screams. Not from pain but from the sensation. This is everything he wants, right where he wants it, at his core. Oliver fucks into him, hard, deep, relentless, and just feeling him inside, his hot breath ghosting over Elio's nape, his mouth mumbling profanities, is everything Elio needs.

He pounds him so hard the table is shaking while Elio claws to its edge, grunting, his still sensitive cock trapped between his belly and the table top, and all he can do is beg for cock.

And Oliver gives it to him, pinning him down with one hand on his shoulder blade and the other on his hip, gripping him so hard that Elio’s sure he’ll bruise.

“Yes! Fuck, yes!”

When Oliver comes Elio feels it, feels him swell and pulse inside him, hot, thick, heavy, imagining his insides painted white; he clenches to keep as much inside as possible for a moment longer when Oliver slides out. The next thing he knows, Oliver must have dropped to his knees behind him, because a soft mouth is pressing against his sore entrance to suck the mixture of cum and vanilla right back out of him.

It's so filthy that Elio's spend cock gets hard again, rubbing against the hard wood of the table. Oliver is slurping and moaning, his tongue pushing deep inside Elio’s hole, licking into him, caressing and worshipping him. To help, Elio reaches back to pull his cheeks even further apart. He wants to keep Oliver there forever, eating him out.

But rather too soon, Elio comes again, with a soft whimper this time, his belly now slick with sweat and cum, sticky with maybe even remnants of their food. He's so shagged out he’s lost for words, fearing his trembling legs might give out if he tries to stand on them.

As if sensing his weak state, a moment later Oliver lifts him up and carries him over to the mattress, carefully lowering him before pulling a sheet up over him as he strokes his hair and mumbles: “Let me tidy up, love. Just rest.”

Elio is too worn out to protest, just nods – and must have drifted off immediately because when he comes round again he's in a real bed, with a cushion beneath his head and an Oliver wrapped around him. When he reaches out his hand touches a wooden headboard, and he realizes he somehow ended up in his bedroom.

But fuck, he needs to piss.

He slowly entangles himself as not to wake Oliver and makes his way over to the bathroom after determining that he's been lying on the left side of the bed. So, with his right hand on the bedpost, it's five steps ahead before turning left. He still feels a little shaky, and a sharp spike of pain shoots up his spine as he tiptoes towards the toilet, his asshole protesting his every movements.

But needs must.

As he sits and pees his sore rectum burns but it's not totally unpleasant because it reminds him of their intense lovemaking.

He thinks Oliver has truly enjoyed his birthday.

Yet somehow, as he washes his hands, he experiences a familiar inner unrest. He knows he won't be able to fall asleep again soon, and therefor he doesn't bother to return to bed. Instead he feels wide awake, antsy, and so makes his way downstairs, getting a glass of water from the kitchen before meandering into the salon. It’s like he's pulled there by some magnetic force.

His fingers brush over the closed lid of the grand piano, and suddenly he remembers all the times he sat here, either practicing or playing for his parent's guests. Could he still do it? He lifts the lid, his fingers gently stroking the keys before pressing down a c minor accord.

To his surprise, it's tuned.

The notes echo in the huge, dark, almost empty house.

Elio listens, becoming aware of the sound wavering in the air.

Out of habit, he sits down on the bench, hissing a little as his naked ass makes contact with the cool leather upholstering, and starts to play from memory, filling the darkness with an eerie, melancholic melody...

He's totally unaware of his surroundings as he loses himself in the swelling and ebbing of Ravel's _Le Jardin Féerique_ rising from beneath his hands, spreading all over the villa, resonating within its old walls until a kiss is pressed just below his left ear.

“Elio. Elio, Elio, Elio,” Oliver whispers, otherwise not touching him.

“Oliver...” Elio sighs.

They stay like this until the piece is finished.

Only then does Oliver sit down next to him on the small bench, pulls him close and says: “Fuck me, Elio.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this!?
> 
> Have you seen, the chapter count went up...


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's pretty obvious what will happen in this chapter, right :)?

What better moment to experience this intense sensation than his birthday? It would be the ultimate gift from Elio to fulfill Oliver's nagging desire.

When Oliver had first come to New York right after finishing high-school, he'd had no idea what he liked and wanted, and so he'd tried everything at least once. It had surprised him that his partners usually took him for a top, though.

Gradually, he'd slipped into this role, as it also went along with his dominant tendencies... but still... truth be told, he liked to get fucked. Oliver didn't believe that it meant surrendering to someone. If he rode a cock it was him who set the pace and took what he needed; he who was in charge.

And tonight, he's become hugely aware that their time here is limited. Elio is leaving in about two weeks for Paris. Oliver wants – needs – to take what he can before they part for who knows how long.

Yet he registers that Elio freezes at his words, his fingers loosely resting on the piano keys. He straightens his back, takes a deep breath.

Oliver waits, one hand on Elio's thigh, stroking it gently.

“Are you sure?” Elio asks eventually, turning his face in Oliver's direction. In the gloomy light of the dark salon Oliver isn't quite sure how to read his expression: There's excitement, but there's also tension, manifesting itself in his typical small frown, forming a crease between his thick brows.

“Yes, I'm sure. Of course I'm sure.” Oliver just pecks his lips, then moves back a little to give Elio space.

Elio nods, once, firm, as if to convince himself, then reaches for Oliver's hand on his leg, stilling it.

“Now?” A grin is spreading on his face.

“If you're up to it.”

That earns Oliver a hard squeeze to his fingers.

“Let's go back to bed.” Elio stands up and pulls Oliver behind him. He's is still impressed that Elio doesn't need his cane to navigate the villa. The way he moves through the dark house like an elegant ghost almost lets you forget that he can't see.

Up in their bedroom, Elio hesitates a moment in the doorway before walking over to the bed, sitting down amidst their crumpled sheets.

“Okay... but how are we going to do this?”

Despite just the moonlight illuminating the room Oliver is sure Elio's blushing.

Oliver sits down opposite him and takes his hands. “I haven't done this for a while with a man... the easiest would be if I get on my hands and knees and you fuck me from behind.” Elio nods, biting his lips in concentration. “But... I'd actually prefer if I could sit on your cock. I want to look at you.” He knows it's an almost unfair advantage he's about to claim, but watching Elio during sex is sometimes better than the sex itself. He's so open, he enjoys so unabashedly, that it never fails to thoroughly arouse Oliver.

Elio just nods, visibly relaxing.

As they have the house to themselves this night Elio has been wandering around in the nude. So now he just lies back onto the pillows piled up against the wooden headboard, stretching out his long, slender legs, hands folded behind his head.

“Okay, then. I guess you'll have to get me hard first.” He says with a shit-eating grin Oliver wants to kiss off his face.

But instead, he wraps his lips around Elio's already swelling cock, taking him as deep as possible. What his mouth can't cover his hand can, setting a fast, rough pace.

Elio is trying to control himself but it's only a matter of time until his hips start to buck up and Oliver gags.

“Shit, sorry, sorry. Are you sure we-”

“I'm fine. Elio.” Oliver coughs. “Just, keep still...”

Suddenly, he has an idea.

“Wait here. I'll be back in a minute.”

He and Anchise had found some strong hemp ropes in one of the huge cupboards downstairs, probably stored there for gardening purposes decades ago and then forgotten. But now Oliver will put them to good use.

He takes three bundles (better safe than sorry), then sprints up the staircase again.

Elio is still lying on his back, but now his hands are around his stiff cock, lazily stroking his hard, weeping length, smearing precome down his shaft.

“Hey, did I allow you to touch yourself?”

“I wasn't aware I needed your permission.” Elio's voice is thick, rough. Debauched. While Oliver watches, he sucks one finger into his mouth while his left hand reaches further back between his legs as he pulls his knees up, up, and apart...

God, this boy will be the death of him.

“Stop it, or you won't last.” Oliver grins as he walks over to the bed.

“You underestimate my stamina.” But Elio's hands still, his arms falling to his sides. His chest is heaving and his cock stands proudly to attention, the head red and glistening. The sight makes Oliver almost lose it.

“Okay, as I don't think we can rely on your self-control, I guess I'll have to tie you up.”

Elio swallows audibly. “Okay.”

“Remember to use your safeword.”

When Elio nods Oliver quickly sets to work. This is not about intrinsic artwork, weaving elaborate knots all over Elio's delicate skin; this is just about binding Elio as tightly as possible. Oliver starts to wrap the first rope around his shoulders and chest, fixating Elio's arms at the side of his torso down to his wrists, but leaving his hands free at either side of his hips.

The second rope Oliver uses to tie Elio's legs together right up to his groin. His cock seems to get even harder and he thrusts into thin air until Oliver gently slaps his side.

“Hey, keep still.”

The third rope he loosely wraps around Elio's throat, taking the ends in his hands. Elio swallows, his Adam's apple bopping.

When he's finished Elio looks a little like a beef roulade.

“Can you wiggle your fingers and toes for me, please? Tell me if you experience needles and pins.”

When Elio does move without any signs of discomfort Oliver is satisfied that the ropes are tight enough but not too tight.

“Okay then, here we go.”

He takes the lube from the drawer of the nightstand, then squats over Elio's midriff, each knee on either side of his slim waist.

“Pity you can't watch as I finger myself open.” Oliver rasps as his slick index-finger breaches his rim.

“Then I guess you have to tell me.” Elio's voice is thin with arousal.

“Hmmm, feels so good. Just one finger but I think I can add another... Yes! God! I have to slow down a little... Where is... Oh Jesus, yes, there, god!” His cock is hard by now and he watches mesmerized as a drop of precome lands on Elio's quivering stomach between two coils of rope.

Elio moans when the fluid hits his skin. He tries to wiggle, searching contact, but his tightly bound limbs won't comply. He ends up twitching miserably.

“Baby, I'm so wet I'm dripping on you...” Oliver whispers, relishing the control he has over his lover.

In response, Elio moans again, louder this time.

Oliver is just about to tighten the rope around his throat when Elio says: “Sit on my face. Let me help you. Don't remove your fingers.” 

It's a bit of a struggle but in the end Oliver is able to scoot up, spreading himself over Elio's face before pushing two fingers back in and lowering his ass until Elio's slick tongue finds his entrance after lapping around his nether regions a bit (not that Oliver minds). The tip plays with the stretched muscle while his fingers slide in and out, and then, with surprising force, it pushes in right next to Oliver's digits, the soft, wet sensation adding to the heady mix of stretch and pull.

To give Elio something in return Oliver bends forward and, bracing himself with his free hand on Elio's shin, starts to lick and suck the head of his beautiful stiff cock, Elio's taste exploding on his tongue.

It's almost too much. When his fingers slide in and out without causing him any ache, Oliver sits up again and shuffles back down.

Elio is gasping for breath. Oliver grabs the rope wrapped around his neck again.

“Are you ready, babe?”

Elio just groans, his face hot and flushed, lips swollen, glistening with spit and lube, slightly parted as he tries to get his breathing under control, curls sticking to his forehead.

“Please...”

Oliver takes Elio's shaft in hand and the boy keens at the touch, his head lolling left and right on the pillows. Bliss is just a moment away. Oliver spreads his legs and guides Elio's glands towards his slick entrance, bending his neck to watch. Elio sucks in a sharp breath and then his cock slips inside Oliver as he slowly lowers himself. They both freeze and gasp at the sensation, Elio's body going utterly rigid while a blotchy red flush starts to color his chest.

“Just, give me a minute...” Oliver sighs as he revels in the feeling of something thick and blunt inside him just there, stretching him in a not quite unfamiliar way... It feels so good he wonders how he's gone without it for so long.

When he's sure his body won't fight the odd intrusion he sinks down inch by inch until he's sitting on Elio's thighs, his own hard cock jutting out in front of him, his balls already tight, pressed against Elio's pubic bone.

He experimentally rolls his hips and they both moan in unison.

“God, Oliver, just move...” Elio's tone is wavering between demanding and begging.

In answer, Oliver just pulls the rope around Elio's neck a little tighter. Elio goes rigid when he realizes what's happening. He tries to swallow. It visibly takes some effort. He blinks once, twice, and then cants his hips, fucking up into Oliver's tight hole.

Oliver stares down at him, aware that he could just tighten the rope some more. More. Strangling Elio. Who's Looking up at him – well, not really – waiting for his next move. Will Oliver go on with it, cutting off Elio's air supply for real, or has the game reached its peak.

There's a second where Oliver wants to see Elio twitch and squirm while suffocating, losing all self-control up to the point where he might piss himself. But... that would be too much. Even immersed in his sex fog Oliver knows this has to stay a fantasy.

In the end, even though Oliver would love to torture Elio some more, his own need wins over. After circling his hips a few times more he starts to slide up and down Elio's shaft, languid at first, then faster and faster. At the same time, he gives the rope around Elio's neck some slack, allowing it to slip through his fingers. When he leans forward to capture Elio's panting lips in a searing kiss the angle changes, hitting him RIGHT THERE and he almost screams as Elio's cock grazes his prostate in one deliciously firm thrust.

Elio is struggling with his bounds, visibly aching to touch, to move, to set the pace – but it's no use. He's totally immobilized, just a sex toy for Oliver to use, a stiff cock to fulfill his needs.

The rope still remains loose around his throat, grazing his sensitive neck.

With the thread still looming Oliver takes his time and uses Elio for his pleasure as he sits back up again, varying the rhythm, speeding up until he's almost there before stopping to move altogether, keeping just Elio's cockhead inside, then savoring the achingly long slide down, jerking his head up once or twice by pulling at the rough ropes.

In the end, Elio accepts his fate, lying there unmoving, a bit like a mummy, just offering his cock to Oliver to get off. His sweaty face is almost angelic, his eyes wide open and glazed over as if he's had an epiphany until an eerie smile spreads on his lips.

“O-Oliver, I... I wanna come.”

“Oh, baby, you feel so good. So good. Your cock is so hard and deep inside me I...ugh... I want to keep it there forever. Oh god...yes. Yes!”

As Oliver is impaling himself on Elio's cock faster and faster he finally starts to touch his own dick. It doesn't take long after that. Elio's mouth forms a perfect O when the thick white spurts of Oliver's cum hit his chest up to his chin, and then Oliver experiences a pulsing inside as Elio floods his guts with his own hot semen.

Oliver knows he needs to untie Elio but somehow his arms and legs won't obey him as he sinks down, sprawling all over Elio's bound body like a giant octopus. He might be made of jelly. He needs a moment to get his breath back, feeling the ropes against his heated sweaty skin while his cum dries between them.

Oliver hisses when he lifts his ass and lets Elio's still half-hard cock slip from his hole.

“God, I'll feel that in the morning.” Which is now, as one look towards the window tells him.

Elio snickers. “Welcome to my world.” He breathes.

They both shower together after Oliver has untied him, and then he relishes in stroking the rope marks on Elio's skin while outside the summer sun rises, shining bright into their little love nest.

He wants to stay like this forever.

But time, their grim nemesis, won't allow it.

 

The day they have to part because Elio is leaving for Paris comes way too soon. During their last night they slowly make love and then just hold each other afterwards until they fall asleep when the birds start to sing outside.

Predictably, Elio is cranky when he has to get up just a few hours later. They've agreed that Oliver will only take him to the station in Crema from where he'll go to Milan to catch his train to Paris. The transfer at Porta Garibaldi has been arranged. A steward will meet Elio there and put him in the right train to France.

He doesn't take much with him, just a backpack full of dance clothes and another bag with essentials. At the breakfast table, he just sips his espresso and mutters that he slacked over the summer and didn't practice enough.

“That's not true.” Oliver remembers watching a sweaty Elio stretch, bending his lithe body into impossible shapes. When he jumped it looked like flying and Oliver didn't dare to blink in fear he'd miss an elegant pose as Elio swayed to the music.

“I will still looks like a klutz in Paris.” Elio grumbles.

“Darling, all will be fine.” Oliver kisses the tip of his nose and tries to ignore the empty feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with lack of food. He knows Elio is just lashing out because he doesn't want to leave. But Oliver also knows that this melancholy will be forgotten the moment he starts training with the Ballet d'Opera. Elio has spoken about the company with such excitement, such a dreamy expression on his face, that Oliver understood it's his biggest wish to work with them.

So he'll give everything he has. And he'll be brilliant.

In the end, Oliver is glad that Anchise drives them to the station. They both sit in silence in the back, holding hands, Elio's head resting on Oliver's shoulder. There's nothing to say.

Anchise stays behind and lights a cigarillo when Oliver leads Elio onto the platform.

It's their second good-bye within a few weeks – and it hurts even more than the first time in New York. But now they know they will meet again in about two weeks – on Elio's 20th birthday. Oliver will come visit him in Paris when he's settled in.

“It's not that long, babe. And now we're in the same timezone. We can FaceTime whenever we want.” He hugs Elio tight, who grabs the back of his shirt and does only let go when the speakers announce that the train is ready to depart.

“I love you.” He says just before the doors close, his eyes red-rimmed and wet.

Oliver stands on the platform, staring at the empty tracks until the train vanishes at the horizon.

He sits next to Anchise on the drive home, his face in his hands, and the old man doesn't mock or reprimand him, just drives on while the radio plays one of the disco hits popular this summer, a song so wrong right now that in the end it makes Oliver laugh out loud, bitter and sad.

Why does his life have to be so unfair, always taking away from him the person he loves?

Only then does Anchise wordlessly offers him one of his black cigarillos and says: “So, you know, we need to fix the roof of the shed this afternoon, right.”

“Right.” Oliver sighs. “Let's fix something.” The cigarillo burns in his lungs and makes him a bit woozy but he wipes his tears away and stares out of the window, watching the smoke ripple in the stale air.

And then he suddenly smiles, happy this time.

Because, wherever he might be, Elio Perlman loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry, but their time in Italy had to come to an end. Next chapter we'll meet Elio in Paris and some angst returns.
> 
> I also have to apologize that I won't be able to post next week but I'm going to London to watch The King! So next update in about ten days.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio arrives in Paris. Sorry, light angst as he has trouble to adapt. But he's strong so he will see it through.

Paris is an absolute nightmare. It’s noisy, crowded, and even less accessible for people with impairments than New York. Also, Elio’s French is somewhat rusty.

When he eventually reaches Nanterre, where the ballet school is located, after spending almost all day on various trains, his new dance mentor meets him at the station. His name is Francois and he’s an assistant teacher at the school but has also experience in working with disabled students, as he explains to Elio by way of introduction.

He guides Elio to the dorms where he’ll spend the next year. He’s to join the permière division (or senior year) of students, preparing for their entrance examination into the Corps de Ballet of the Paris opera in May next year. As his fellow pupils are around 17 or 18 and still reading for their baccalauréat in the mornings, Elio will be a little older than them. He’ll work alone with Francois in the mornings or on stuff from Barnard’s curriculum instead of attending class. Then they'll all train together in the afternoons.

Francois tells him all of this on the short walk from the station. He seems in a hurry while Elio feels overwhelmed and tired and just says _'Oui'_ when Francois' soliloquy sounds like it demands a reaction. There's too much to take in: new smells, a new language, new surroundings. In the end, Elio forgets to ask the most basic questions and just follows, unable to memorize half of what he hears.

When he’s eventually settled in a nondescript small room and has unpacked his few things, his head is almost exploding from a fierce headache. He’s not sure if he wants to throw up or cry or both at the same time. Yet he puts on a brave face when he calls Oliver. As he had promised to do. No more silences between them.

“Hey, babe, how are you?” Oliver's warm voice fills the room.

“Fine. A little exhausted, but fine.” It’s so good to hear Oliver – until the fact that he’s over 500 miles away hits Elio like a punch.

“Did everything work out?”

“Yeah, I met Francois, he seems nice. Room’s okay as far as I can say…”

“Show me.”

“Is it already dark? Do I need to switch on the light?”

“Yeah, better.”

Elio takes the phone, feels for the light switch that's usually located by the door and then circles the room until he collides with some furniture – the bed?

“Ouch, I guess I have to get used to it.” He tries to smile but his shin pulses with an angry ache. That will at least bruise if it's not a scrape.

“Well, it's not the Ritz but it looks okay to me. I'm sure you'll manage.”

“Yeah...” Suddenly, Elio's stomach rumbles. He'd just eaten the panini Mafalda made him, and that was hours ago.

“Are you hungry? Things will be better after you had dinner.”

It suddenly dawns on Elio that he has no idea where to get food here. But if he tells Oliver this much it might lead to a tirade against this whole exchange program. Oliver has been skeptical these last few days, that much had been obvious, despite his efforts to hide it. He’d thought the whole thing badly prepared and even worse organized and had said as much in a phone call to Marzia Elio had overheard.

_‘They don’t seem to realize that Elio needs special facilities. They are so full of themselves and their famous school that they don’t understand that Elio is a little different. – No, of course I didn’t discuss that with him, he would go off like a bomb if I mentioned he might need to be treated differently…’_

Now, somehow, Elio has to concede that Oliver might have had a point. Because he feels left alone and isolated.

Lonely.

But it’s no good to worry Oliver. So he says: “Yeah, we grabbed something on our way here. And… later, Francois will take me to the canteen.” He swallows dry tears and ends up in a coughing fit.

“Oh, that’s good. Great.” Oliver sounds as lost as Elio feels, despite making an effort to come over cheerful.

Don’t start crying!

“Oliver…”

“Yeah…”

“I… I think I’ll have to go.” Elio touches the abrasion on his leg, focusing on the physical pain to keep the other, much worse, at bay. “I have to go down to the reception and finish some paperwork.”

“Sure. Remember, I’ll see you soon.”

Oliver will come up for his birthday in two weeks. Right now, Elio is torn between wanting him here so badly it hurts and avoiding at all costs Oliver seeing him as miserable as he is.

“Yeah. Cool. Great… can’t wait.” He stutters before he hangs up.

But instead of going down to the administration and ask for facilities, the canteen, or some help in general as he knows he should Elio lets his fatigue and depression take over. He just curls up on the bed, phone still in hand, pulls a blanket over his head and waits for this day to end.

He jerks awake some time later – Siri’s soft voice informs him that it’s three in the morning when he asks her – and has to piss. Yet he doesn’t even know where the toilets are. But as nature calls he's forced out of bed. So he unfolds his stick and explores the corridor, staying close to the wall. There’s door after door – but how is he to tell where the men’s bathroom might be? He thinks about calling a helper – but he's too tired to do the maths to figure out what time it might be in the US…

In the end, he walks on, and eventually discovers a spot that smells of chlorine and other cleaning fluids that seem to be used everywhere all over the world to mop up excrements.

He can only hope that it’s the men’s restroom – but then he doubts that there will be much traffic at this time of night even if he should chose the girl’s loo.

Afterwards, he only has to find his way back… Francois had shown him up here earlier and told him that he was to stay in room 28… but now he discovers that the room numbers aren't raised – so he can’t feel them. But luckily he remembers that he left his door ajar. And he also remembers that he passed approximately nine doors before he found the bathroom.

Yet he’s still bathed in cold sweat when he’s finally back in his room, too keyed up to go back to sleep. So he changes into a track suit and waits for the time to go by until Francois will come and get him. When he starts to hear shuffling outside, his fellow pupils getting up, he takes his travel kit and walks outside again. This time he can ask someone to show him to the men’s bathroom to brush his teeth.

The boy is friendly, introducing himself as Ivan from Novosibirsk, living next door to Elio in room 27.

Small steps.

When Francois leads Elio over to the building housing the training suits, he eventually also shows him the school's canteen. By now, Elio is almost dizzy with hunger and he has to wolf down three croissants before he feels slightly better. Nothing has ever tasted this good, not even Mafalda's pasta.

Next to the dance studios are changing rooms with showers. Over the next few days, Elio also discovers the washing machines in the basement, finds someone who helps him access the WiFi, and puts a sticker on his door next to the room number so he can easier identify his place.

His fellow students are mostly French and mostly nice but rather indifferent to his impairment. Maybe it’s because the school is very competitive that they don’t seem to have much time to care for anyone but themselves? Elio often feels he’s a nuisance when he has to ask for something, be it directions or help with some minor task.

But maybe he’s just imagining that?

Or perhaps it’s the language barrier, though Elio’s French improves fast? Or that he’s older? Whatever it is – he feels out of touch with the other students and can’t seem to connect with them.

But the training is great. He and Francois work well together. And he learns so much in his first week already that he starts to really look forward to training and rehearsals.

He’s glad that the teachers don’t treat him differently. They just tell him what to do, what they want to see form him, end then it’s up to him and Francois to try and execute their instructions.

With some glee Elio realizes during the first week that his teachers are surprised that he can keep up with the training. They didn’t expect him to be able to dance on this high level of perfection. Did they think his stay here would be a charity program?

Well, whatever, Elio is here to dance – and to learn. So that is what he concentrates on. It helps keep the homesickness at bay.

Most pupils leave the boarding school on weekends, so after his first five days Elio is suddenly truly alone in the dorm, apart from the janitor and his wife who works as concierge down at the reception, Ivan, and a girl from Korea named Mi-sook.

They hang out together more out of necessity than because they like each other, talking dance and watching Netflix in silence, but somehow they stick together over the weekend, even sharing some beers on Saturday night.

They are all far from home and that helps them bond. Better to spend your time with strangers than being utterly alone.

As there’s no training Elio thinks about exploring Paris but then shies away. The big city is too daunting. Maybe they can do it together when Oliver will come over the next weekend?

When he calls him to suggest a trip to the Louvre or Musée D’Orsey, Oliver sounds excited.

“You know what, I’ll book us a hotel near the Eiffel Tower for the next weekend. Just us, Champagne and a huge Parisian double-bed.”

Elio laughs. “Just don’t waste money on a room with a view.”

“Well, maybe _I_ would enjoy a nice view…”

“No. I’ll make sure you won’t even have time to think about it.”

They end the call before it descents into phone sex but Elio furiously masturbates afterwards anyway. It helps him sleep.

 

Elio tensely waits for Oliver’s arrival in the lobby of the Hôtel Eiffel a week later, standing next to the reception, his backpack thrown over his shoulder. He has already collected his key card but is reluctant to go up. He’d have to ask for help – again – and that had already been the case on his way here too often. To put it mildly, Parisians are not the most patient people in the world. He’d been met with much grumbling and shoving on the Metro so his desire to communicate with the natives has been covered for today.

“Elio!” He’s put out of his misery when Oliver suddenly hugs him, holding him so tight one could think it had been two years and not only two weeks since they last saw each other. Elio clings to him with equal desperation, however, because those last couple weeks have taken their toll on him.

Now he feels like almost bursting into tears just for smelling Oliver’s familiar scent.

Oliver keeps holding his hand all the way through check-in and right up until he closes the door of their room behind them.

“So, is there a view-?“ But Elio’s question is cut short because Oliver is pressing him against the wall and starts kissing him, one hand already fumbling with Elio’s fly.

“Who cares.” Oliver breathes, his fingers slipping beneath Elio’s waistband.

Elio melts into his touch, all tension leaving his body when Oliver wraps his hand around his stiffening cock.

“God, I missed you so fucking much.”

Elio feels Oliver sliding down his body just before a hot, wet mouth covers the head of his cock and he almost topples over. Thank god Oliver’s hands are steadying him, grabbing his hips as he starts to swallow him down.

“Oliver, I-“ It takes only an embarrassingly short time for Elio to flood Oliver’s mouth with his seed. “Sorry.”

“Hmmm.” Oliver hums as he’s zipping Elio back up.

“Come up here.” Elio’s hand is reaching for Oliver's head, raking his fingers through his silky hair to pull him back onto his feet. “I need…” His voice breaks.

Fuck!

Everything is a bit much all of a sudden.

“Hey, baby, what’s going on?” Oliver’s huge hands cup his face, preventing him from turning away to hide the tears spilling from his eyes. “Baby, did I hurt you? Please, Elio, I’m so sorry-“

“Just hold me!” Elio chokes out and the next moment Oliver is all around him, tenderly embracing him.

Sobs shake his body that he can’t suppress as Oliver cradles him until the worst crisis subsides.

“Let’s sit down.” Oliver suggest eventually, leading Elio through the room, his feet sinking into the luxuriously deep carpet until his legs brush against something soft.

“The bed. There are otherwise only two armchairs to sit in. Not what we need right now.” Oliver explains. Elio carefully lowers himself. “Let me get you some water.”

Oliver leaves his side only for a moment and then a cold bottle touches Elio’s right hand.

After he’s taken a sip, still sniveling, Oliver asks gently: “So, what brought this on?”

“I don’t know.” Elio shakes his head, scarping his thumbnail over the ribbed cap of his water bottle.

“Please, baby, talk to me.”

Elio takes a deep breath. “It’s just… I missed you so much.”

Oliver touches his face again, two fingers beneath his chin lifting it up.

“You look pale. Do you… eat? Sleep?”

Elio shrugs. “Sure…”

“Because you do look as if you could need some feeding up.” The pads of Oliver's thumbs brush the delicate skin below Elio’s eyes. “You look tired.”

“It’s just… I feel so lonely here. Almost lost. I don’t want special treatment but no one seems to… I don’t know… even care if I’m here or not. I have to ask for everything and I hate it but… what else can I do? I feel so stupid most of the time, so helpless. I can’t even order food at the canteen alone because I have to ask what’s on offer first and then some dinner lady snaps at me and asks if I don’t have eyes on my face… it’s so humiliating.” Now that he’s started he can’t stop, it all pours out of him: “I know I sound like a douche, and that I don’t have a right to complain, I should be grateful for this opportunity and I’ve known it would be hard but I wanted it, so much, and now it feels as if I overestimated my abilities. Maybe I’m not made for this. Because when I despair this early, how will I ever be able to work for different dance companies, with unfamiliar people at unfamiliar places? Fuck, sorry, and now I’m ruining our weekend…” He wipes fresh tears from his face before falling back onto the mattress. “I haven’t even asked how you are…?”

“I’m happy you told me what’s going on.”

The mattress dips and Oliver is pulling him close so Elio can rest his head on his chest.

“Because I was worried. You looked and sounded… a little off. I know that it can be hard to adapt at first. But you’re a tough one, Elio Perlman, you’ll stick it out. This weekend, though, let me take care of you and spoil you.” Oliver kisses the top of his head and Elio wraps his arms around him a little tighter, truly relaxing for what feels like the first time in weeks.

Because with Oliver, he feels safe. Safe enough to confess his insecurities.

“So, what would you like to do tonight?”

Elio just sighs. “Honestly, I just want a hot bath, a massage, room service, and a cheesy movie.”

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

It is exactly what they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank god for Oliver!  
> The next chapter will be 15 pages of solid smut.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They celebrate Elio's birthday...
> 
> Enjoy!

The next morning, Oliver sneaks out of their bed and room while Elio is still asleep. Round the corner of their hotel he finds a bakery where he gets a gateau au chocolate which he decorates with sprinklers back up in their room.

“Hey, baby, happy birthday.” He gently nudges Elio until he’s awake, sitting up, rubbing his eyes with his fists. His curls are a wild mess as he yawns.

“What-?”

Oliver lights the sparklers and Elio turns his head, listening to their hiss, while he wrinkles his nose, probably smelling the sulfur.

“How many are there?”

“Twenty, of course.” Oliver grins.

They order coffee to their room and then Oliver feeds Elio tiny bits of chocolate cake until his protests that he’s full sound real.

“I have to watch my weight, you know that.” Elio grins, licking the corner of his mouth to catch a stray bit of chocolate.

“Sure.” But Oliver can’t help staring at his protruding rips, the ridges of his spine, his sharp collar bones… Elio’s not taking care of himself properly and it shows.

Oliver swallows and is about to say something more when Elio asks: “So, where are my presents?” His cheeks are flushed, if with excitement or just from the sugar rush Oliver can’t tell.

“Oh, about that… I’m broke, as you know, and I had to pay for the flight over here… it’s just something small.” Oliver walks over to his bag and gets the two packages out, weighing them in his hands for a moment before approaching Elio with the bigger one, putting the smaller back in his holdall.

“For you, baby.”

When Elio touches the paper, squeezing it, a bright smile blooms on his face and his flush deepens. “Is that what I think it is?”

Oliver chuckles. “Let me wrap you up in it. You’ll look so fucking pretty.”

Elio tears the paper and lets the soft ropes slide through his long fingers, biting his lip.

“Which color are they?”

“Black.” Just imagining the ropes cutting into Elio’s white skin makes Oliver’s cock twitch.

Elio kneels up, extending his hands, offering the ropes to Oliver. “Please.” He says, and that’s all the permission Oliver needs to finally tie Elio up the way he’s been fantasizing about for months.

With steady motions, Oliver positions Elio the way he wants him – kneeling, his legs spread wide, arms behind his back. It’s nothing too complicated Oliver attempts today, but it will be effective in restraining Elio.

 

Oliver wraps the cord round Elio’s waist, then loops it around the crease of his groin to tie each ankle to his upper thigh as Elio sits back on his heels.

The other rope he winds around Elio’s chest, up over his shoulders and upper arms to create some sort of simple harness. With the last thread he ties Elio’s wrists to the rope around his waist at the small of his back before tugging its ends towards his front between his spread legs, winding the cords first around his ballsack and then the base of his cock, tying it off in some sort of self-made hemp cockring.

By then, Elio’s balls are heavy in Oliver’s hands, the soft wrinkled skin tightening under his touch. His cock twitches and leaks and grows harder by the second.

When he’s finished Oliver steps back from the bed and watches. Elio’s chest is rising and falling as he takes short, shallow breaths. His nipples stand out between the black ropes, dark-pink and peaked. His cockhead is glistening wet as his shaft darkens with blood.

Elio can’t move, on full display for Oliver to do as he pleases. He takes his time, gazing at the tied-up beauty, pliant in his restraints, his head hanging low, dark curls covering his face.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Elio whispers, sounding a little dazed.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

Elio does.

“Tell me when they get cold. You’ll stay like this for a while.”

“Yes, Oliver.”

“I won’t leave the room. The door is locked and I put the ‘do not disturb sign’ outside, so you don’t have to worry that someone else sees you like this. I just want to enjoy the view.” Oliver pulls one of the armchairs over next to the foot of the bed. “I’ll just sit here, watching you.”

And that’s what he does – stare at Elio as his stomach ripples and his thighs start to tremble slightly. His breathing quickens and every now and then a drip of precome falls from his slit until there’s a small wet patch forming on the ivory sheets.

Oliver has been hard since he started to tie Elio up, and now he doesn’t see any more need for self-restraint so he opens his fly and takes his own cock out.

“I’m stroking myself watching you like this, Elio. God, I’m so hard.” The only sign that Elio has heard him is that he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down on it. “You make me so wet.” Oliver sighs. “Wanna taste?”

Elio nods but stays silent. That’s when Oliver eventually leans over to him, swiping his index finger first over his cockhead, then brings it to Elio’s lips to smear the glistening fluid all over them. Elio’s tongue darts out to catch the pad of his finger and Oliver allows for it – just for a second.

Elio’s eyes flutter shut – a rare occasion during sex – only to snap open when Oliver pinches his right nipple. “Hey, stay with me.”

Elio softly moans, bucking his hips in a futile motion to achieve some friction. But it only tightens the ropes around his most sensitive parts and he gasps.

“Careful. You don’t want any chafing there.” But he takes mercy on Elio and gently swipes his thumb over his cockhead. Elio’s whole body shivers.

Next, Oliver brings his wet, sticky fingers up to the nipple he’d just pinched and starts to massage the fluid into the hard nub.

Elio keens at the back of his throat but tries to stay still otherwise so as not to pull those ropes between his legs tight again.

Yet in the end, his restraint falters and he rolls his hips when Oliver assaults his left nipple in the same way, biting his lips to stifle a whimper.

Oliver alternates between playing with himself and Elio’s nipples until his own balls feel like exploding and Elio is flushed crimson down to his navel.

His small voice is raw by now, thin moans escaping him as he ruts back and forth as best as he can. His nipples are puffy and swollen, so sensitive that he trembles under the gentlest touch. His shaft looks purple, the vein on the underside standing out, throbbing, while a bead of precome connects his cockhead to the sheet. His skin is covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

“O-Oliver.”

“Yes, baby.” Oliver watches as Elio’s lips close around the two fingers he just pushed deep into his mouth, making him gag as he presses down onto his tongue, his whole body convulsing. He can only hum in answer.

“Make them really wet.”

Elio does, sucking and licking with abandon until Oliver pulls slowly back.

“You need me inside you?”

Elio nods.

Quickly, Oliver gets up from his chair, shedding his clothes before climbing onto the bed behind Elio.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers before kissing Elio’s damp neck, pushing his fingers back into Elio’s mouth until he deems them slick enough, then trails them down Elio’s side as he steadies himself with the other hand on his bony shoulder.

When his fingers reach between Elio’s cheeks the boy sighs, his pucker hot under Oliver’s touch. He quickly relaxes and opens, admitting Oliver’s fingers with a satisfied moan.

“So fucking needy.” From where he sits behind Elio he can see the rope marks already forming beneath the cords. Delicious. “Fuck yourself on my fingers, baby.”

Elio does, moving as best he can, canting his hips upwards before pushing back down. Oliver avoids contact with Elio’s prostate, or this might be over way too soon. Today, they are in for a long ride. It doesn’t seem to matter to Elio anyway as he gasps and moans, his body swallowing Oliver’s fingers with ease.

He lets him have fun for a while until he eventually pulls back out. Elio whines.

“Shh, baby. Was that good for you?”

Elio nods. “Ye-es.”

“You're so fucking beautiful like this. I think it’s time to give you my other present.” Oliver leans over and takes a box from the drawer of the nightstand where he'd put it last night while Elio had been in the bath. He can’t see but his boy has sharp ears; he would have suspected something if Oliver hadn’t been careful.

The box contains a small black butt plug. Oliver quickly lubes it up, then presses it into Elio’s welcoming hole. He gasps as the widest part slides in but the stretch can’t be too bad because he sighs somewhat content when the toys sits in place, the only visible sign its broad black base tugged snugly against Elio’s rim.

“Okay?”

“Hmmm.” Elio hums. Oliver kisses him between his shoulder blades, then grabs the remote.

“It’s got a little extra.” He presses a button and Elio almost jumps, going rigid in his bounds.

“Fuuuuck.” He hisses, so Oliver knows the vibrator inside him is working.

“This is just the lowest setting. I want to watch you some more.”

Oliver climbs back into his chair. After five minutes, Elio is a blubbering, crying, sweaty mess, his whole body trembling as his arms and legs fight his restraints.

“Oliver, please… oh god, please, I need…” He’s chanting a string of expletives, his face contorting in what looks like agony, and then he’s making a peculiar noise, his body spasming as his muscles flex. “I’m coming…” It sounds outright painful.

Oliver watches mesmerized as thick white cum shoots from Elio’s swollen cock all over the sheets. He swipes up a bit, using it to slick his own hard cock as he slowly strokes himself, watching Elio quiver.

“Please, take it out…” Elio whispers when he has gotten his breath back. “It’s too much, I’m too sensitive-“

“No.”

Elio freezes.

“Oliver, please-“

“One more word and I switch it up.”

Elio’s mouth snaps shut. The fun is just starting.

The ropes around his cock and balls prevent Elio from going limp. He stays hard while the little toy inside him massages his prostate. Oliver watches him having another dry orgasm about fifteen minutes after his first, then another half an hour later, all the while lazily stroking his own cock, only stopping when he gets to the edge himself.

From time to time, he reaches for Elio’s, watching him shudder and flinch in his grip, so sensitive that mere light touch makes him groan.

Yet he doesn’t use his safeword.

So after almost an hour, Oliver has mercy with him. Elio is slumping in his bounds, his head hanging low, snot, sweat and tears dripping down his torso. Oliver gets behind him and pulls the plug out, watching it buzz in his open palm for a moment until he switches it off.

He’s so hard he fears shooting his load the moment his glans make contact with Elio’s wet hole. So he quickly pushes in, pulling Elio up into his lap as best as he can, fucking deep into him.

Elio whimpers, his head rolling back against Oliver’s shoulder.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this, babe.” Oliver tells him, then stills, just feeling Elio around himself, his skin so hot he might be burning up. “Show me how much you want me.”

Elio sighs, his voice weak from begging, but he manages to clench around Oliver a few times, massaging his fat cock with his velvety insides.

That’s apparently all it needs for Oliver as his arm tightens around Elio’s waist and he comes so hard he almost blacks out, filling Elio with a huge load.

“So good, you’re so good, baby...” He mumbles before pulling out, pushing the plug back inside to prevent his cum from leaking out. He wants to keep it inside Elio, just the idea of him being filled with Oliver’s seed making his spend cock twitch again.

But Elio definitely needs a break. Yet he doesn’t protest being plugged again, just accepts it, whispering “Thank you.”

“Good boy.”

After kissing his nape again, Oliver unties him, staring at the rope marks covering his body. He makes Elio drink some water and feeds him another piece of cake before he wraps him up in the comforter, rocking him back and forth until he’s fallen asleep, snoring silently in his embrace.

So much for round one.

Round two begins three hours later when Elio wakes up again. He stretches, yawns – and pulls a face.

“Ouch.”

“Where?” Oliver asks, rolling over to brush a stray curl out of Elio’s face.

“I’m not sure…” Elio frowns.

“Is it bad?”

“No, not really. Just feels like as if I did a long training session.”

“You did. Kind of.” Oliver grins.

“Yes. Thank you, Professor Weizmann.” Elio purrs, his voice still a little raspy from sleep.

“I think I would very much like to fuck you again, if that’s okay with you?” Oliver’s finger wander Elio’s chest, still decorated with fading red marks.

“Absolutely.”

They take it slow this time. Oliver places Elio belly-down on a pile of cushions before pulling the plug out, watching his sphincter flutter as the small toy slips free. He quickly presses his mouth to Elio’s pucker, slurping up some of the cum escaping the ring of muscle.

“I think you’re wet enough like this.” He murmurs after a while and Elio sighs and squirms as an answer, so Oliver lines up and pushes in.

He enjoys the slow drag, watching Elio’s back arch and flex, muscles coiling beneath milky skin. He holds him by his slim hips, thrusting in and out in a lazy pace while Elio rubs himself against the soft pillows underneath him.

He comes first but Oliver follows suit, breeding Elio’s hole with another huge load.

“Can I plug you again?” Oliver asks before pulling out, having grabbed the toy again.

“Yes.” Elio sighs. “That's so fucking hot. I feel you inside me.”

They manage to shower afterwards and then Oliver takes Elio to a late lunch in a small bistro where Elio laughs at Oliver’s bad French when he orders while Oliver gets hard again listening to Elio joke around with the waiter, not understanding a word but finding it utterly erotic.

When they have finally arrived at desserts Oliver feels Elio’s foot stroke his calf beneath the table and takes this as a signal to turn the vibrator back on.

Elio sits up a little straighter and Oliver watches with delight as his cheeks bloom crimson and sweat pools on his upper lip while he feeds him mousse au chocolate from a small silver spoon.

“Can we… pay.” Elio asks a little breathless.

“Ah, I think I’d like a digestif. How about you?”

Elio hunches his shoulders and grips the edge of the table. “No, thanks.”

“Well, then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.” Oliver flags down the waiter and orders a brandy. By now, Elio is biting his lips, his knuckles turning white.

“Maybe you need a trip to the gents?”

Elio just shakes his head, a frown forming between his thick eyebrows.

Oliver idly chats on for ten more minutes, nursing his drink, describing the passers-by outside to Elio who looks as if he couldn’t care less about a woman with a small dog or some schoolchildren taking selfies. His mouth is a thin line on his face while his hands primly hold his napkin in place, covering his lap.

“Can you ask for the bill, please, darling?” Oliver tells him when he thinks he’s suffered enough.

As Oliver pays, Elio stays seated.

“I can’t walk out here like that.” He whispers when Oliver touches his arm to help him up.

“Oh, I’m afraid you’ll have to.”

“Oliver-“

“If you refuse I’ll turn it up.” Oliver puts his other hand into his coat pocket where he hides the remote.

Elio is blushing even deeper.

“But… Oliver… I’m fucking hard.” He hisses.

“Just pull your sweater down.”

“People will still see…”

“Yes, they probably will.”

“You are such a bastard!” But Elio pushes his chair back, discretely pulling the hem of his hoodie down as he gets up. Oliver takes his arm and leads him towards the door.

“Everyone is staring at your hard cock, Elio. Some are even giggling.” He whispers. It's a lie but he enjoys riling Elio up like this.

“Please, don’t-“

“Now we’re on the street and people are turning their heads. Everyone can see that you’re my fuckboy. That you’re hard and loving it, parading your erection around like the horny bitch you are.” His mouth is close to Elio's ear, his lips brushing the crimson earlobe.

Elio grabs Oliver’s arm harder, keeping his head lowered, hiding behind his curls. Oliver leans close: “Are you a horny bitch, Elio, aren't you?”

“Yes, Oliver.” It sounds like a moan. Oliver allows his hand to briefly sneak down to Elio’s ass, giving it a quick hard squeeze.

“Back in our room, I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll see stars.”

In the elevator, Elio pushes both his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie to hide the treacherous swelling between his legs. Oliver decides he can take a bit more – especially as they are alone in the lift - and touches the remote, flipping it up a notch. Elio gasps but covers it with a coughing fit.

He has to walk very slowly up to their room.

Inside, Oliver leads him towards the writing desk.

“Bend over, bitch.”

Elio is already fumbling with his fly, pushing his trousers down, presenting his ass to Oliver.

“Pull it out yourself.” Elio does, a little clumsy, breathing hard. “Now finger yourself for me, start with two.” Elio mewls.

The angle isn’t good and he can’t reach deep but that doesn’t matter as Oliver can watch his cum leak out of Elio’s reddened rim, dripping over his fingers.

“Add another.”

Elio does, speeding up, his other hand busy at his front.

“Want me to fuck you again?”

“Yes. Please.”

“One day, I’ll put my whole fist inside you.” Oliver tells him before batting his hand away and pushing in, having freed his own erection while watching Elio play with himself.

It’s hard and fast this time, the writing table bouncing rhythmically against the wall while Elio moans and begs for Oliver’s cock, his cum, his hand, his spit, his sweat, promising to take it all.

When Oliver comes for the third time today, it's actually him who sees stars and fears to pass out. As he slides from Elio’s body he has to catch him as his knees buckle and his sweatslick hands slip on the tabletop. Oliver holds him upright with one arm around his waist while the other strokes him to completion until his whole body slackens with another final climax.

They end up in a pile on the floor, Elio leaning against Oliver’s chest.

“I wished we could smoke in here.” He says and laughs, raw and exhausted but sounding blissed-out and happy.

“Oh baby. That would be very French.” They giggle like lunatics, obviously totally spend.

“Are you okay?” Oliver eventually asks.

Elio grins. “I’m fine, don’t worry, I can take you three times a day if I have to.”

“I don’t mean… physically. I mean, it happened today, seven years ago, right?” Oliver softly kisses his temple.

Elio exhales, but otherwise goes very still. “Yes.” He whispers.

“Do you… do you usually do something special on this day… to commemorate them?”

Elio is silent for a very long time. “I… I never went to their grave. Where’s the point? It’s just a stone, a hole in the ground. And the first few years I was just so… angry with them. God, it’s horrible to say this, I know, but… if they hadn’t quarreled, if they hadn’t taken me out to dinner… I know it’s futile but it took me a while to… come to terms.”

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to justify hating your parents with me.” Oliver hugs him a little tighter.

They both fall silent, and Oliver hangs on to his own childhood memories. He sees his mum sitting on a picnic blanket in the middle of a summer meadow, reaching her arms out for him while his dad stands behind her and laughs heartily. And somehow, his thoughts wander to the little box he still has hidden in his bag. Because, could this be the start of their own family? But then he hesitates. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t want to ask Elio about their future together on the day his parents died and his life changed forever. That day is already laden with too much emotions.

There will come a better time.

“But maybe there’s something we could do now?” He suggests to Elio. “Together. Like, was there a special piece of music, or… I don’t know….” He clears his throat. “It’s Rachel’s birthday soon as well. She died three days after. It’s the first anniversary and I really don’t know what to do.” He feels tears sting in his eyes and blinks fast to hold them back.

Elio’s fingers brush his face, stroke his cheek. “I’m so sorry.” He says and Oliver can see that he’s thinking by the frown forming between his brows. “And I’d really like that. They both loved Ravel. I actually learned a few pieces because they played them all the time on our old record player… What music did Rachel like?”

“Thelonius Monk.” Oliver can't help the smile spreading on his face.

“Oh. Okay… I’m not sure I can play _that_.” Elio’s expression of suppressed shock and disgusted refusal is priceless.

“We’ll find something on Spotify, later. And you can tell me about your parents if you want to. Everything you hated about them.” Elio nods again, grinning a little. “Okay. Come on, we both need another shower first.”

Oliver gently soaps Elio’s skin under the warm spray and once more asks the universe how he’d got so lucky a second time around.

He'll do anything it takes not to lose it again.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio returns to the villa for the Christmas break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We jump a few months forward in time. There's a lot happening here.

To Elio’s surprise, things had improved in Paris after his initial difficulties. Maybe he’d adapted better, or his fellow students had become accustomed to him, but whatever it was, he’d started to feel more comfortable. He’d even made a few… well, friends would sound too grand, but acquaintances, yes. With Ivan and Mi-sook he sometimes went for coffee after training, or they met in one of their rooms, drank tea and talked dance, feeling less alone together.

Elio had also rediscovered his love for football, which allowed him to connect with a classmate, Marcel, who was an avid supporter of PSG. As visually impaired people got discount on tickets and were allowed to bring a service person to the stadium for free, they went to the home games as often as their training schedule permitted. Though they never talked about anything other than football or dance, it felt good to have this outlet, to have something else than ballet, especially as school was getting quite demanding.

When it came to training, Elio did well. Of course, he was never satisfied but his teachers praised him and his commitment and even gave him a large role in the school’s Christmas recital of the Nutcracker, Drosselmeier (which suited him because he’s mostly presenting the other dancers and doesn’t require doing a pas de deux which would have been a bit too difficult for Elio).

They perform at the Paris opera house every afternoon the week prior to Christmas with dancers from all classes of the school, the younger ones playing mice and kids at the party while the older ones are snowflakes and the senior students dance the famous choreographies of the second act. It’s a great success, all performances are sold out. Elio baths in the applause afterwards, soaking it up like a dried sponge.

The only downer is that Oliver can’t make it to Paris to see him (and to celebrate Hanukah), as he has to prepare for and host another small group of guests in Crema.

When school finally finishes for the (Christian) holidays, Elio feels both elated and exhausted.

He's been a bit opaque regarding his plans for the two-week break. It’s not that he does mind his classmates knowing about Oliver but… he had discovered that even ballet can be quite homophobic. It had never been a problem in New York (or maybe Elio just hadn’t cared) but over here he often hears his peers calling another dancer they dislike a _‘pédé’_ – and he really doesn’t need that as he’s trying to gain his footing within class.

So he’d just told everyone that he’s going home to Italy. Except Marcel, to whom he's confessed that he has a boyfriend, asking for his discretion.

“Cool.” He'd said, squeezing Elio's knee on the Metro.

Elio hasn’t seen Oliver in months. Which should be a good thing because it means the villa is flourishing. After the first course in September they even had enough bookings to host a second group in October. And now there’ll be another one over the holidays… which also means he and Oliver won’t have the villa to themselves…

But Elio has decided he’ll tolerate their paying guests if it helps to keep the house. As for now, things look pretty neat. This time, it’s only five people. He’s certain he and Oliver will manage to get some alone time. He’ll make sure they do. They can always go up to his attic for a quickie. 

They need it. FaceTime can only do so much. And as happy as Elio is that their plan for the villa seems to work – it also means that he has to share Oliver with the increasing demands of their business. Over the past few months, getting the art school off the ground had been their priority. It had been the reason why Oliver had to cancel his planned weekends in Paris two times – and after that they’d decided to stop rescheduling as it had only turned into disappointment.

As it’s been over four months, no wonder Elio’s skin is prickling and he’s already half-hard when he steps off the plane in Milan.

If it was for him he’d devour Oliver inside the airport washroom.

But Oliver being Oliver – not quite a sadist but at least someone who sometimes enjoys tormenting Elio – he decides that they should refrain from making out in a stall reeking of piss. Yet Elio takes his time snogging him at arrivals – if someone takes offense at them they can kiss his ass, this is his home turf and he’s smooching anyone he wants for as long as he wants!

Oliver doesn’t let go of him once as he guides him to Anchise’s old Fiat in the parking lot, his arm tight around Elio’s shoulder.

“You could search for a quiet lay-by and fuck me on the backseat?” Elio suggests as Oliver helps him climb into the passenger seat

“You're unbelievable.” Oliver laughs.

“No, I’m horny.”

“It’s way too cold.”

“I’ll warm you up.”

“No, no, no… I prepared something at home. A surprise.”

_Home._

“I don’t want a surprise, I want _you_.” Elio protests to mask how choked up he gets at Oliver’s choice of word for the villa.

“Baby, I missed you.” Oliver kisses him once more before he starts the car. 

On the drive to Crema, he tells Elio all about their current guests, probably to calm and distract him. Still, Elio feels uncomfortable in the small car, and every bump in the road makes him reach for the door handle or the dashboard. Or for Oliver. A nice, slow hand job would be so much appreciated right now… 

“There’s this couple, Ina and Josh… can you keep your hands away, I’m driving? Ina is a retired schoolteacher and Josh’s a plumber from Omaha, Nebraska. Now they want to explore their more artistic side. Then we have Joan from Oxford. She’s a university professor, just divorced her husband and is looking for a new challenge. Ursula is from Dublin and friends with Sean who was on my first course in September and apparently liked it very much… Elio, I _mean_ it!” Elio falls back into his seat, pouting, until he feels Oliver’s hand rest high on his thigh. “And then there’s Vincent.” 

Something in Oliver’s tone makes Elio perk up. He sounds way too casual. 

“Vincent?” 

“He’s eighteen, German, traveling Europe after finishing school. Thinks about going to art college. Quite talented." 

“Is he? At what?” Elio bites out. He doesn’t like the way Oliver’s talks about this boy. 

“Drawing! Jesus, Elio, you really need to get off, don’t you?" 

“I told you so!” 

When Oliver turns off the road and the car rumbles down what feels like a farm track (judging by the potholes that torture Elio’s ass), he can’t suppress a shrill squeal. 

Then Oliver’s hand travels even higher on his leg and all his anxiety flies out the window. 

The old Fiat is way too small and Oliver is way too tall and even lean and flexible Elio can't avoid getting poked in the side by the gear shift as they start to make out more enthusiastically than passionately, with Oliver grabbing the back of Elio's neck as he somehow tries to pull him closer. It doesn't help that Elio knees Oliver in the groin as he attempts to clamber into his lap. 

“Ouch!” 

“I also told you that I hate cars!” 

But that doesn't stop him from rutting against Oliver's body while the steering wheel scrapes against his lower back and his thighs are starting to cramp. 

It’s all forgotten the moment Oliver frees both their cocks and starts stroking them rough and fast. Elio's weeping slit provides enough slick for both of them, his boxers already embarrassingly soaked through at the front. 

“God, you're so wet for me, baby.” Oliver groans into his ear and Elio will later attribute it to the months of abstinence that this is all it needs for him to shoot his load (even hitting the roof of the car as Oliver informs him after he came as well), pushing his tongue deep into Oliver’s mouth because in that moment he wants to eat him alive. 

They are gasping for breath while Oliver helps Elio climb back into the passenger seat, zipping him up before buckling him in. 

“Better now?” 

Elio is still trying to adjust his parka when they are back on the main road. He feels a peace settle over him he’s missed for a long time. Not even Oliver braking hard and yelling at another driver can faze him. 

At the villa, Mafalda welcomes him with a hug before scolding them for taking so long. Now lunch is cold and Oliver has to hurry so he won't be late for his afternoon class. 

It's freezing outside, the snow crunching under the soles of Elio's boots as he walks up to his home. He has to suppress the urge to bend down, scoop some up and start a snow fight. Maybe they can do that later… 

The class will take place in the salon, Oliver explains. 

“Sorry, we'll figure out how you can use it for dancing and we can use it for painting.” Oliver kisses Elio's icy cheek, squeezes his hand, and leaves him with Mafalda. 

“Sorry, folks, I know I'm late...,” Elio hears him say and then a door closes. 

“How is he? With the guests, I mean?” Elio asks while they ascend the stairs up to their bedroom on the first floor. 

“He's very enthusiastic. The guests love him. He really cares for what he's doing here and the people notice...” Mafalda’s enthusiasm sounds a little forced. 

“But?” Elio asks as she guides him into the room. Only after the door has fallen close with a bang and they are alone does the housekeeper speak again. 

“I'm not sure if he realizes it, as he's absolutely besotted with you, don’t get me wrong… but there's always someone - a man or a woman - who pines for him. I mean, he looks like a movie star. Who can blame the guests crushing on him? There was an English lady on the first course who gazed at him as if he's hung the moon every time he opened his mouth. The next time, it was an architect from New York who went running with him every morning. And now this boy, Vincent... he's always loitering, you know, making mooneyes, offering to carry or fetch things, stays up late with him in front of the fireplace. I think it’s because Ulliva isn’t wearing a ring. To this lot, he looks single.” Mafalda sighs disapprovingly. 

Elio drops his suitcase on the floor. 

“Thank you for being so frank.” He feels somewhat numb but he might just be tired. 

“I thought you should know. And mind, I'm not saying that these feelings are reciprocated. Ulliva is just professionally friendly. Still... I don't like it.” 

_'I don't like it either.'_ Elio thinks. To change the subject he says: “Sorry again about lunch. I think I'll have a shower and take a nap.” His appetite is suddenly gone. 

Mafalda pats his cheek. “I'll ring the bell for dinner. Wear something nice. I ironed your good shirt. It’s on a hanger outside the wardrobe. Show them who Ulliva belongs to.” 

The shower helps Elio a little to loosen his stiff muscles from hours of sitting on the plane but when in bed, sleep won't come. 

Elio worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he remembers the last months. Had there been… signs? They’d talked daily, often via FaceTime. No big, important conversations, just telling the other how the day was going. It helped but did little to fill the growing void inside Elio. He missed the human touch, warm skin, someone holding him or massaging his feet after a long day of training. 

Had Oliver felt the same? Had he been tempted? 

If Elio’s honest, he did come close once or twice. There's a boy in his modern dance class, Max... they walk home together after training sometimes as he lives on Elio's floor. One evening, he’d invited Elio over to 'watch a movie'. Elio had declined. 

And Marcel often puts an arm around his shoulder or waist. Or tickles him. And Elio has to admit that he likes it, likes his smell, likes to feel held, likes his warmth... 

Fuck! He just needs a cock up his ass. No, not any cock. All will be well after tonight when Oliver will give it to him good and hard. Just the idea makes his dick swell, even as it is still sensitive from earlier... 

Masturbation always makes him sleepy and the next thing he knows is a bell is ringing from downstairs. Elio quickly gets dressed – remembering in the last moment to put on his pink shirt with the ruffles Mafalda had picked for him – rakes his fingers through his hair to smooth out eventual cowlicks, bites his lips, pinches his cheeks, and makes his way down towards the dining room. 

It smells delicious and he suddenly realizes how hungry he is. The room is cozy and he hears a fire crackling in the huge fireplace. Chairs are scraping over the stone floor and people are murmuring. Elio waits by the door until a huge hand lands on his shoulder. 

“You must be Elio.” An unfamiliar deep voice says. American. 60+. “I'm Josh. And this... this is my wife, Ina." 

“So nice to meet you. Thank you for allowing us to stay in your beautiful house. It's amazing.” A woman is shaking his hand, her fingers long and bony and a little cold. She sounds friendly though. 

“Well, you're paying for it.” Elio answers, and only as the words have left his mouth he realizes that this was not a very nice thing to say. But Josh just laughs. 

“We do, young man. It's not cheap but so worth it.” 

“Elio!” Elio is saved from digging the whole for himself deeper by Oliver seizing his free hand, pulling him into the room. 

“Dear guests, may I have your attention, please. This is Elio Perlman, proud owner of the Villa Albergoni, your host – and my boyfriend.” 

Elio feels his face blush being presented like this but having Oliver by his side helps. He sounds so excited and happy that Elio can’t be angry with him for showing him off like he’s a trophy. Somewhere to his right a glass splinters and Elio stands a little taller. 

“Good evening.” He says to the room, who answers in the same manner except for a male voice apologizing for dropping his drink. 

At the table, during dinner, Elio sits between Oliver on his right and Joan on his left. She's a classical linguist, teaching at King's College, and they really hit it off. She has even read one of his father's book, so they talk archaeology as well and it's so interesting and he’s so lost in their conversation that he almost falls off his chair when he feels Oliver's leg pressing against his during the main course. 

“If you don't stop talking about the sensuality of late Greek sculptures I'll have you in front of everyone right over this table.” Oliver whispers into his ear. 

“So that’s your surprise for me? I never took you for an exhibitionist but I wouldn't say no.” This earns him a rather painful squeeze to his thigh. 

“Brat.” 

“You like it.” 

“I do.” 

Joan clears her throat and Elio turns back to her. “What do you think about Praxiteles?” At his right, Oliver suffers from a sudden coughing fit. 

“Sorry, I think… I’m choking on some… meat.” 

_‘I’ll make you, tonight, in bed.’_ Elio thinks. Then he hears someone quickly approach, and a moment later it sounds as if Oliver gets forcefully smacked on the back. 

“Do you need me to do the Heimlich maneuver?” A young male voice asks. The same that apologized for dropping a glass? 

“Thank you, Vincent, at least you care if I die here.” Oliver chuckles when he has his breath back. Now it’s for Elio to squeeze his thigh hard. 

After dessert and cheese, there's coffee and drinks. Joan excuses herself with Ursula to step outside and smoke. Ina and Josh start to sample the local Grappa which Elio declines and just as he wants to lean closer to Oliver he hears a chair scraping over the floor again and a soft voice asks: “Oliver, do you have a moment? I'd like to show you what I worked on this afternoon. I'm not sure about the perspective I've chosen. It's still on the easel in the studio.” 

“Uhm, Vincent, I was just talking to Elio...” 

“I'm sure Elio won't mind. Or would you, Elio?” The sweet voice addresses him now. He speaks good English but there's a hint of a German accent to it. Elio hopes it doesn’t do the same to Oliver as his French accent. 

Elio’s fingers form a fist, crumpling the poor linen napkin in his lap as he responds as saccharine as he can: “Of course, not. The customer is king.” Putting this boy right back into his place, he hopes. 

When Oliver and Vincent have left, Elio asks Josh if he could pour him a Grappa after all. The oily spirit burns down his throat, and then he smells stale smoke. Joan and Ursula must have returned to the table. 

“Gosh, Elio... I hope it's okay if I call you Elio? This house is so lovely. And the orchard! Even in winter it’s a sight for sore eyes.” Ursula has a strong Irish lilt and Elio has trouble understanding her at first. “It's such a shame that you can't see what Oliver has done with this place.” 

In the silence that follows her words someone refills Elio's glass he’s still clasping in his hand. He knocks it back instantly. 

“Ursula, that was not a very nice thing to say.” Joan breaks the embarrassed silence with her no-nonsense voice Elio can imagine her using on her most irritating students. 

“Oh, sorry, silly me. Have I offended you? I always speak before I think.” Ursula giggles. 

“It's okay. At least you've mentioned the elephant in the room, I guess.” The Grappa helps him to stay polite. 

“Can't you really see anything? Like...” Elio feels a puff of air on his cheeks. Is the woman seriously gesticulating in front of his face, checking if he’s just a maligner, feigning his blindness? 

“Excuse me, I think I'll search for Oliver. Good night, it's been a pleasure to meet you all. Blame it on the jet lag.” Elio pushes his chair back and gets up. He wishes he had his cane with him because he doesn't know how much Oliver changed things but it can't be helped now. He hears Joan and Ina whisper as he leaves, feeling his way outside into the corridor. Ah, there's the big oak sideboard with the landline telephone on top. There's the chair. And opposite there's the old couch. The salon-cum-studio must be to his right now. Elio hears two voices. 

Vincent is speaking very low but very fast (Elio can’t make out what he’s saying, and not for a lack of trying) until Oliver interrupts him. 

“Vincent, I don't think that's a very good idea. I really would suggest you think about it-” 

“But Oliver!” Vincent raises his voice and is obviously about to start a rant when Elio decides to walk in on them. 

“Oliver! Are you done here? Can we go upstairs? I’d really like to go to bed.” Elio makes it sound exactly as he means it, so you don't have to be a genius to translate his words to _'Can we fuck now?'_

“Elio, of course. You must be tired. Sorry, Vincent. Please, consider my point. Okay?” Elio hears a huff and then someone storms out, passing him in an angry stride. Elio doesn't need eyes to know that the boy feels utter frustration. 

“What was that about, with Vincent?” He asks as they sit on his bed a few minutes later, sharing a cigarette. 

“He wanted my opinion on his picture.” 

“Oliver, I'm blind, not stupid.” 

“He wanted to talk about which college to attend?” 

“Nice try. If you don't tell me the truth I'll sleep in the other room next door tonight.” 

“Okay, he tried to kiss me, said he'd always known I was gay, but now that I had confirmed it my sexuality only added to the strong bond between us, and that he wants to stay on here when you're gone so that we can be together. Happy now?” 

Elio is speechless for a moment before he erupts into laughter. “Oh my god. Oh.My.God! Is he for real? The poor boy. What did you say?” 

“I hope I let him down gently.” 

“His departure didn't sound like he appreaciated it." 

“He'll get over it.” Oliver takes the cigarette from Elio's fingers. 

“I'm not so sure. If you rejected me like this... I know how he feels.” 

“Then aren't you lucky that you didn't leave me back in New York in spring?” 

“Very.” Elio leans towards Oliver until their lips meet. 

“Grappa?” 

“Just two, to cope with our guests. That Irish woman...” 

“What did she say now?” Oliver asks as he starts kissing down Elio's neck while at the same time unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Doesn't matter. Now, where's my surprise?” 

The bed creaks as Oliver rolls over, opens a drawer that's stuck a little at first, and rummages inside it before handing something to Elio. 

It's heavy, made of rubber. As Elio's fingers explore it he inhales sharply. “Oh! For me? But I'm quite happy with your cock and our other toys...” 

The dildo isn't as big as Oliver's dick, but long and veined, with a thick head. Suddenly, it comes to live in Elio's hands and he drops it. 

“Fuck.” He laughs, his fingers searching for the toy until he picks it up again. It’s pulsing, slow but insistent. 

“No, not necessarily for you as in... to use _on_ you... but more like... for you to use _on me_.” Oliver stuttering means that he's nervous. 

When will he learn that he doesn't have to be shy around Elio? 

“Uhm, okay, but what is wrong with my cock?” 

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with your cock, Elio. It's just... _one_ cock. And I want... more.” 

“Oh.” Elio’s mind is going a million miles an hour. “Now don't tell me I should be grateful you didn't invite Vincent up here to join us. And how are the logistics to go? You want two cocks up your ass? I'm not sure that's a good idea.” 

“God, Elio...” 

He can hear the cringe in Oliver's voice. 

“Hey, it's okay. I'm not saying I won't do it... just, explain it to me, Oliver, love.”

“Ugh, okay. Iwanttosuckyouoffwhileyoufuckmewiththedildoandsuckmeoffsimultaneously.” It all comes out in one rush. 

All that is heard in the quiet of their bedroom is the buzzing of the sex toy. 

Oliver seems to take Elio's silence for refusal. “You don't have to, obviously. It's just a fantasy. I mean, if you don't like the idea...” He continues a little calmer, offering Elio a way out without embarrassing them both. 

“No. Stop. I didn't say I didn't want to. In fact,” Elio feels his face heat, “in fact, I like your idea. Very much.” 

“You do?” Oliver sounds suspicious. “You don't just say that because you're horny because we haven't seen each other for four months?” 

“Well, that might play a little into it but... actually, I find the idea stuffing every of your holes with cock quite exciting.” Elio grins, slapping the still vibrating dildo against his palm. 

At first, it’s a bit awkward, especially as one party is unable to see and has to rely on touch alone. Oliver directs him as best he can once they're both naked (and keeps the remote control for the dildo in his hand, so Elio can't lose it). 

It's quite enough for Elio handling lube and dildo and putting everything in the right place. 

“Tell me if it's too much.” He says before sliding the slick rubber head and two of his fingers between Oliver's spread cheeks, searching for his tight ring of muscle. When he finds it he rubs the dildo against Oliver's opening a few times until he moans. 

“Do it." 

“Beg me.” Elio realizes he quite enjoys being in charge. 

“Please, Elio, fuck me. Put that thick cock inside me.” 

Elio does, excruciatingly slow as not to hurt Oliver. 

“Good?” 

Oliver hums in approval as his tongue is busy between Elio's cheeks, lapping and kissing his hole while he’s squatting above Oliver’s strong, warm, furry body. 

“Yeah, that's it, bitch, eat my ass.” 

Big hands lift his bottom away from Oliver's face. 

“Elio?” 

“Yeah, bitch-" 

“Don't. Okay?” 

“Uhm, yeah, okay.” 

Oliver sets to work again, but this time he sucks Elio's cock into his mouth and Elio gets so excited that he almost loses his balance. He steadies himself in the last moment by grabbing Oliver's thigh before his mouth starts to search for Oliver's cockhead while his free hand keeps the dildo in place that’s now buzzing deep inside Oliver’s body. 

“Mhhh, there you are.” He says, circling Oliver’s moist glands with the tip of his tongue, reveling in the taste he’s missed so much before swallowing Oliver down as far as possible, opening his throat. 

All Elio can hear is a soft hum and obscenely wet slurping noises, made by both him and Oliver. 

This feels incredible. Dirty. Hot. He rotates his hips, fucks into Oliver’s mouth until he feels him gag; draws it out; slides deeper. Makes Oliver take it until the choking sounds real and teeth scrape the base of his cock. Only then does he pull out to allow Oliver to get his breath back. 

He coughs, splutters. Elio’s cock slaps his scruffy cheek. 

“Can you move the toy? Please.” Oliver’s voice is raw with need. 

Elio can, turning it a little this way and that until he hears Oliver gasp around his cock that he's been suckling again. 

Elio grins around his own mouthful of dick, pulls the toy all the way out before pushing it in again, deeper as before until he can feel the surprisingly realistic rubber balls hit Oliver's taint. 

When he starts to fuck Oliver’s ass and mouth in earnest he groans and makes the most peculiar noises while at the same time sliding down Elio's throat until he sees stars. Eventually, he needs to let go because he can't properly breathe, but after a few deep inhales he swallows Oliver again, working the dildo even faster than before. 

There's a growl, a spasm, Oliver’s hips snapping, and then Elio's mouth is flooded with the bitter taste of semen, a load so huge he’s literally guzzling cum. 

He sits up, vaguely registering that the toy slips from Oliver's opening while he pulls his cock from his mouth. 

“You're mine.” Elio tells him, all dominance and possessiveness, clambering over Oliver until he's straddling his chest. “Mine.” 

Elio works his own cock with one hand now, fast, while the other is buried in Oliver’s damp hair, his strong grip to his sides steadying him, and after a few sharp tugs he shoots his load all over his lover – at least he hopes so. 

When he's got his breath back he feels for Oliver's skin, finding it coated with thick ribbons of sticky cum. 

“Mine!” Elio says for the last time, but it's now reduced to a happy sigh. 

Oliver pulls him close, cradles his head, and for a while all that Elio can hear is the beating of Oliver’s heart as he rests on his heaving chest. 

“Yours.” Oliver whispers against Elio's sweaty temple, and that's the last thing he hears before sleep claims him. 


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, something big is coming (no, not that, you pervs :)

Elio and Oliver wouldn’t normally celebrate Christmas but for their guests' sake Oliver had Anchise put up a tree in the dining room early this morning that Mafalda decorated with some hastily bought Christmas balls (Oliver has been late doing Christmas shopping and therefore only got the most jarring specimens no one else had wanted). But the fairy lights look nice, he has to admit, draped over the dark green branches, twinkling joyfully.

When Oliver comes down the stairs on Christmas day he’s happy he did bother. Their guests seem excited as they exchange little gifts over the breakfast table. Oliver gets a bottle of Scotch for which everyone has chipped in, and Ina even knitted fluffy blue legwarmers for Elio (did Oliver really talk so much about his boyfriend that their guests knew Elio was often cold?).

When Mafalda starts clearing the table, Vincent slips Oliver a small parcel before almost running from the room. He’s been quiet over breakfast, just sipping his coffee. Oliver tries to ignore what happened yesterday and to treat him like everything’s fine but isn’t sure he’s succeeding. It’s not that he’s into Vincent or anything. His infatuation is a surprise. Should he have seen it coming? But then, he’d took Vincent’s admiration as some sort of youthful friskiness. Never did it occur to Oliver that the boy would actually make a pass on him.

He’s glad Elio took it with mature sangfroid, not attaching too much meaning to Vincent’s behavior; and not blaming him for encouraging the boy. He knows Elio can be quite melodramatic sometimes. But maybe Paris helped him grow up?

He’s changed, Oliver can tell, both in body and mind. If possible, his muscles are even more defined – and Oliver loves it, loves the lean, wiry strength he exudes. But he also seems more open, more self-assured, as if he’s more willing now to let Oliver into his life.

Though, Elio takes his time to get up this morning. But Oliver doesn’t mind, he knows Elio had a tough schedule in Paris and needs to relax. This is a holiday for him, after all.

So Oliver teaches a short class on perspective in the morning and then sends their guests all over the house and garden to make a pencil drawing of something they associate with Christmas.

They’ll meet again in the evening for a big traditional Italian Christmas dinner.

When everyone’s left the salon, he opens Vincent’s present. It’s a small volume of Goethe’s _Italian Journey_. As he opens it, he reads the famous words _'Et in Arcadia ego'_ and smiles a little. It’s a lovely edition, early 20th century, containing some drawings, with an Art Nouveau binding in green and gold. There's even a handwritten dedication on the frontispiece:

_'“To know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom.” To a happier year for Oliver from Vincent'_

Evelyn Waugh. Oliver never liked him. He prefers W. H. Auden.

Whatever, he can't accept this gift after last night. But how to tell Vincent without hurting or upsetting him?

He’ll speak to Elio about it.

Oliver walks into the kitchen where he’s sure to find Elio by now. And true, huddled up in sweatpants and a large black woolen jumper at least two sizes too big for his lithe frame, his boyfriend is leaning against the counter, sipping coffee and clumsily trying to pinch some of the Panettone dough that Mafalda is kneading.

“Elio, stop it.” Mafalda scolds him, smiling a little as she lets him get away with it. “You’ll only get a sore tummy.”

Oliver kisses the pout off his face.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning… it’s almost midday.” Mafalda grunts. “And I won’t have any of this in my kitchen! I’m old. Take your hanky-panky elsewhere.”

“Our _what_?” Elio literally snorts his coffee and has to wipe his nose and chin on the sleeve of his jumper while Oliver pulls him into the dining room.

“Your present. They're blue. Ina knitted them. Say thank you to her tonight.” Oliver hands Elio his legwarmers.

“Oh, that’s very kind. They feel so soft. But… I have nothing for her. Or anyone.”

“You could play some carols after dinner?”

Elio pulls a face. Then he asks: “Is that pine I’m smelling? Do we have a tree?”

“Yep, but it was some last minute affair so it looks garish.”

“Is there mistletoe as well?” Elio grins.

Oliver is glad he doesn’t see him blush. “No.” He remembers the small box he’s hidden in his wardrobe. It’s not that he didn’t make plans but he’s not sure if it might be too much, too soon…

He still has nightmares about Elio fleeing his apartment in New York. And now that they haven't seen each other in months... they really need to catch up first before he makes a move.

“Pity.” Elio still smiles, making a lewd movement with his tongue in cheek.

“God, I missed you.” Oliver pulls him close, raking his fingers through his sleep-tousled curls. “I also got a beautiful book from Vincent. What do you say, should I keep it?”

Elio sighs. “Honestly? No. Don’t encourage him any further. But be gentle.”

Oliver feels a small pang of regret that he’ll have to give the present back but knows that Elio is right.

“When did you get so wise?” Oliver whispers against the slightly greasy crown of his hair. He likes his Elio a bit grimy from time to time. “Have you showered?”

Elio shakes his head.

“Good.”

Oliver drags him back upstairs for some more 'hanky-panky'.

It's urgent at first as they literally tear their clothes off, Elio almost getting lost in his jumper, but then they take their time to explore, to become familiar with the other’s body again. Oliver notices that Elio’s shoulders seem broader, his ass firmer. There’s definitely stubble on his upper lip and chin.

He wasn't exactly a boy when they met but now he's starting to look like a man.

Oliver kisses down Elio’s chest, stroking his abs, sucks on his left nipple, his hands grabbing the back of Elio's knees to spread them, pressing them up against Elio's shoulders. There's nothing better than a flexible boyfriend.

“I need you to fuck me.” Elio whispers, his voice throaty and rough with desire. “Come on, it's been too long.”

That's true.

Oliver kisses him once again before leaning back and over and fumbling for the lube. Elio hisses when his slick fingers breach him, but then rolls his hips, gripping his own cock to pump it in unison with Oliver's thrusts.

Soon, he's three fingers knuckle-deep inside Elio, whose torso is flushed pink down to his navel.

“Fuck.Me.Now!” He demands, a serious expression on his face.

They both moan when Oliver sinks in.

“Wait. Wait! So big. I had forgotten how big you are.” Elio groans, and Oliver obeys him, staying still halfway inside him, giving his lover time to adjust.

Only when he feels Elio relax beneath and around him does he push in deeper.

It's a short, hard fuck. They both need it like that, need to get off. Oliver feels like reclaiming Elio and wonders if it's just because of the long time apart...

Afterwards, Elio's fingers play with his cum on his chest while Oliver holds him close.

“So, things in Paris are better?”

“Yeah. I'd wish you could've seen my performance. We got great reviews.”

“I know, baby. I'm sorry I missed it. And I'm not sure you'll be able to train here, not when the course is happening. We need that room, and, you know...”

“I know they pay for the upkeep. It doesn't matter that much. My ankle is playing up anyway. A one week break might be what I need. I can start dancing in the new year again when everyone has left.”

“Your ankle? Which one?”

“The right.”

Oliver takes Elio’s slender right leg and pulls it up, bending over his lover and kisses his bony ankle. “Better now?”

Elio laughs but there is something in his expression that worries Oliver.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“It's not _that_ bad.”

“Elio, you need to take care of yourself. Your body has to work properly for you to be able to perform.”

“I know! I just don't like doctors very much after staying in hospital for almost five months when I was thirteen. That were enough doctors for a lifetime. Give it some rest and it'll sort itself out.”

Oliver wants to believe him. He doesn't like doctors either. But he also knows that checking things early can prevent the worst. He wraps his fingers around Elio's delicate ankle and squeezes it, then lets his palm graze the instep of Elio’s calloused foot. “Okay, I'm sure you know best. Just, be careful.”

“Always.”

Elio snuggles closer, and in the end they only get up an hour before dinner is served.

After showering and dressing nicely – Oliver in a blue cashmere jumper, Elio in a black turtleneck and tight black jeans – they go downstairs for Aperitivo. One after another, their guests gather in the dining room, sipping champagne. Everyone seems to have made an effort, the men donning jackets and the women dresses and heels. The fairy lights sparkle in the Christmas tree and after his second glass, Elio sits down at the grand piano in the salon-cum-studio and starts to play _Silent Night_. Everyone knows the words and it's a lovely experience of togetherness, despite them being Christians (both catholic and Lutheran), Jews, and agnostics.

At nine, Mafalda serves capon stuffed with ground meat, egg, Parmesan cheese, mortadella and mostarda di Cremona, a spicy candied fruit condiment. Afterwards, it's her famous Panettone and coffee and Grappa again, and Elio plays some more carols before the stools and easels used for the drawing classes get pushed aside and people start demanding music to dance to.

Elio improvises a medley of ABBA songs, Queen, and Beatles hits. Oliver watches him with pride, the alcohol making him feel warm and just a little fuzzy. Vincent surprises everyone with being a very good singer, knowing all the lyrics. When he needs a break to lubricate his voice with more champagne, Elio plays the odd Strauss' waltz. Even Mafalda and Anchise dance to this while Oliver alternates between Ursula and Joan while Ina and Josh put them all to shame when hitting the floor.

Shortly before midnight, however, Oliver desperately needs the loo. On his way upstairs, he bumps into Vincent. Where is he coming from? Oliver has no idea. But this seems a good time and place to break a delicate subject.

“Vincent, thank you for the book. It’s lovely but… I can’t accept it.”

The boy looks hurt even in the gloomy twilight. Oliver hates himself. “Why? I got it especially for you.”

“That was very kind of you but… it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“But… it’s just a book. I thought you would like it.” He looks crestfallen.

“I do but… Vincent, I’m with Elio.”

“I know! Believe me, I’m... It’s just a book, Oliver, a small present. But if you don’t want it… I don’t want it either. You can throw it in the bin. I can't even ask for a refund because I wrote a dedication in it.” With that, Vincent storms off, back down into the brightly lit salon.

Oliver stays in the bathroom a long time, splashing cold water into his face until he feels halfway like himself again.

When he comes back downstairs, the mood has changed. Everyone seems a little tired, more drunk than tipsy. Elio is playing something slow and eerie that Oliver thinks he recognizes but isn’t sure.

The party’s over.

One by one, their guests say good night – even Vincent, though rather reluctantly. Finally alone, Elio stops playing and just slouches at the grand piano, his back stooping uncharacteristically.

“Hey, babe, what’s going on in your pretty head?” Oliver puts his hands on Elio’s shoulders and slowly starts to massage them. Elio groans with pleasure and sits up straighter. “Thank you for entertaining the crowd.”

“Well, I’m just trying to be a good host. Did you speak to him?”

“Yes.” Oliver sighs. “Despite my best intentions I offended him.”

“Happens.”

Oliver bows down to kiss the top of his head. “Wait. There’s something… just for us.”

Oliver smiles as he walks over to the old stereo pushed into the far corner and puts a record on. He loves vinyl, its crackling static, its imperfection. It makes the music sound much more real.

“I found this in a cardboard box in one of the cupboards. I guess it belonged to your parents?” Oliver hopes he’s not overstepping here, evoking ghosts of Christmas past.

_Bello, bello e impossibile_   
_Con gli occhi neri e il tuo sapor mediorientale_   
_Bello, bello e invincibile_   
_Con gli occhi neri e la tua bocca da baciare_

Gianna's voice is rough, exuberant. Elio shakes his head, still sitting on the piano bench. But he grins.

“I can't believe you chose that.”

“Dance with me.” Oliver takes Elio's hand and pulls him to his feet.

It's not exactly a song to dance close. Still, Oliver wraps his arms around Elio's waist and starts to move, slowly leading their steps.

“For a dancer I'm not very good at this thing.” Elio mumbles.

“You don't have to be.”

They move languidly despite the upbeat tempo, leaning against each other. Oliver smiles as he rests his head atop Elio's curls.

The song fades out and another starts.

_Tu, quell'espressione malinconica_   
_E quel sorriso in più_   
_Cosa mi fai?_   
_Stai così vicino, così immobile_   
_Parla qualcosa, non ti ascolto mai_

“My Italian might be bad but I do think this describes you perfectly.” Oliver says.

“I'm not melancholic.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“Not often.” Elio turns his face up and Oliver kisses him, almost losing himself in the softness of Elio’s lips and the warmth of his mouth. “Let’s go to bed before _'America'_ starts. I always hated that song.”

They just cuddle that night, holding each other close beneath the sheets and the duvet – it's freezing. Elio's feet feel icy, rubbing against Oliver's calves while the cold tip of is nose presses against the underside of Oliver's jaw.

Oliver is the first to wake the next morning when a faint dawn paints the grey sky pink at the horizon. Elio lies exactly as he fell asleep, which is unusual as he’s normally tossing and turning during the night. The duvet is pulled up to his chin.

Oliver inhales his scent deeply, sighs, smiles. God, he had missed this! Right now, he never wants Elio to leave, wants him to stay like this forever. He’d tie him to this bed if he could…

He knows that is both creepy and physically impossible. But maybe not metaphorically. He stares at the huge oak wardrobe, remembers the small box stuffed right behind his swim shorts where no one would look in the winter, not even by accident.

Should he?

What does he have to lose?

Oh, but the embarrassment when Elio rejects him and says no. Could he survive that?

But why should Elio say no? He loves Oliver, has said so many times over the past months on the phone. 

And Oliver, unable to say it back as much as he'd wanted, has thought of other ways to show Elio how much he means to him. Because words can be treacherous, shallow, fleeting... only deeds have substance.

He'd wanted to do it already back in August on Elio's birthday, only then the right occasion never arose, with all the talk of death surrounding that date. Not a good time to start something new together.

But now, Christmas time... well, it doesn’t really mean anything to them. But New Year's? Isn't that the perfect day to set out on a joint future, to put their relationship on solid footing, to show all the world that they belong together?

“I can hear you think, Oliver. Stop it, it's too early.” Elio grumbles, throwing a leg over his thigh and pulling the warm blanket even further up.

He's hard against Oliver's hip.

God, that's another thing he missed!

As if he can really hear Oliver's thoughts, Elio starts to rut against him, slow but enticing and with determination.

“You're insatiable.” Oliver chuckles, feeling rather flattered.

“Missed you... so much.” Elio's cold fingers push beneath the waistband of Oliver's boxers and he hisses. How can his extremities be this icy when he sleeps curled up like a Burito? Yet Elio's hand warms up nice and quick when rubbing Oliver’s cock, purring as he thrusts against Oliver's thigh until he pulls him on top and their cocks – still in their by now too tight pants – align.

They both moan, and then Elio dives beneath the duvet sliding down Oliver's body, and he's already anticipating his warm lips around his leaking shaft throbbing in his underwear...

… when suddenly the door flies open and Vincent struts in.

“Jesus, what he hell!” Oliver yells as he sits up so quickly that he knees Elio in the face.

“Ouch!” The cry is muffled by the comforter which is quickly pushed back and Elio appears, pressing a hand against his cheekbone while his tousled head lolls from left to right. “What's the matter? Fuck's sake, Oliver, if you don't want me to su-”

Oliver, who somewhat clumsily tries to cover his nakedness with a pillow, interrupts him before he can disclose even more of their early morning activities to their uninvited guest. “Good morning, Vincent. Is there a problem?” He tries to smile politely but it’s somewhat difficult.

Vincent at least has the decency to blush, his pale cheeks burning bright red, but he neither apologizes nor leaves. Instead, he even takes another step towards the bed. When the floorboards creak Elio's head snaps in his direction, an expression of outraged fury on his face.

“Don't people knock where you're from?” He bites out, not bothering to hide the quite impressive erection tenting his boxers.

When Oliver becomes aware of the greedy look with which Vincent takes them both in, his eyes wandering slowly from Elio's obvious arousal to Oliver's naked chest, nipples peaking in the cold air, he pulls the duvet tight around Elio's shoulders, covering him as best as he can.

No one stares at his boyfriend like this!

“Can we help you with something?” Oliver schools his voice into friendly nonchalance. But inside his head he calculates the right trajectory to hit the rude intruder in the face with the bottle of lube still sitting proudly on the nightstand.

“Ughm...” Vincent is visibly reluctant to peel his eyes away from their crotches and up to Oliver's face. “The boiler in my bathroom doesn't seem to work. There's no hot water...”

Oliver sighs. Despite his best efforts, the plumbing and wiring is playing havoc in the old villa. It's not the first time that the heating dies, and sometimes the fuses blow and the lights go out.

“Yeah, okay, I'm coming.”

Vincent doesn't move, though.

“Could you give me a minute to get decent?” Oliver says slowly, as if he's talking to a small child.

Vincent's gaze had been on the way down to their midriff again but something in Oliver's tone jogs him into moving.

When the door falls shut behind him Oliver falls back onto the mattress with a groan. “I can't believe this just happened!” He’s so annoyed, yet Elio just giggles. “Fuck! But he's a paying guest, so I guess we can't expect him to take a cold shower.”

“Might do him some good! Jesus, walking into another person's bedroom without knocking – was he raised by exhibitionists?”

“Elio, calm down.” Now Oliver chuckles as well as he rolls out of bed.

“Are you leaving me here, in this state...?” Elio sheds the duvet with a dramatic gesture, exposing his still hard cock. Oliver marvels at his stamina because his own excitement has faded rapidly. Maybe the exhibitionist here is Elio?

“The customer is king.” He replies

“Can we continue later?” Elio asks hopefully, slowly pushing a hand inside his boxers.

God, he’s evil. Watching him, the floor feels even colder under Oliver’s feet. He desperately wants to climb back into bed and replace Elio's hand with his own.

“Actually, I've no idea how long it takes to fix his boiler. I'll take a look alone first before asking Anchise to help.”

“You're not going up to that nymphomaniac alone!” Elio sounds appalled as he pulls his hand back and gets out of bed as well, feeling for his clothes he draped over the end of the bed last night.

“Elio, he's no threat, he's just a confused boy with a crush.” Oliver watches as Elio pulls his jeans on, having trouble to put away his erection. With a painful sigh, he opens the wardrobe afterwards to rummage around in it. “What are you searching for?” Oliver steps up to his side so fast he almost shoves the heavy oak door into Elio’s face.

“Something warm.” He says, emerging with another huge woolen monstrosity in his hands.

“Where even are these from?” Oliver asks as he exhales, relaxing a little, pulling his own sweater over his head.

“They were my father’s and my grandfather’s... Mafalda kept them. Good quality. Merino wool.”

A short silence stretches between them. Oliver isn’t superstitious but wearing the clothes of dead people feels weird to him.

Today, Elio picked an orange baggy… thing falling down to mid-thigh. At least it brings some color to his pale cheeks.

“Okay, then, let’s take a look at Vincent's problem.”

“His problem is that he knows no boundaries... and no shame.” Elio grumbles as they walk up the stairs to the second floor where the guests reside.

While Oliver examines the offensive boiler, Elio sits on the rim of the bathtub, frowning, while Vincent’s eyes dart back and forth between them. The tension in the small room should be enough to light up the boiler again. Oliver tries to concentrate, turning his back to the boys. 

“Hmm, it seems the flame just went out-”

“Why don't you get the matches from the kitchen and light it anew. I wait up here.” Elio's tone reminds Oliver of a crowbar wrapped in candyfloss.

“Yes, okay. Just a minute.” Oliver doesn’t look at either of them as he walks past Vincent and down two flights of stairs, giving Elio enough time to deliver whatever message he has for their guest.

When he comes back up with the matches five minutes later, Elio is still sitting on the rim of the bathtub while Vincent stands in his bedroom, shoulders slumped, and stares out the window. He doesn't even say thank you when Oliver informs him that the boiler is working again after he lit the flame.

“What the hell did you tell him?” Oliver asks Elio as they walk back to their room.

“I just informed him about the ancient Lombardian custom of vendetta. And that I would not hesitate to resort to it should he ever dare to make a pass on you again...”

Oliver chuckles. “Seriously?”

“No. That would have been ridiculous. And pathetic.”

“Ah, maybe I would like it if you fought for me, a little, with a saber, and a bare chest, meeting him at sunrise…”

“That would be a duel.” Elio hesitates on the stairs, gripping the banister tighter.

“You okay?” Oliver asks.

Elio nods, but he has an odd look on his face.

“Okay, then what _did_ you say?”

The sentence, meant as a tease, hangs uncomfortably in the air as Elio refuses to answer. Only when Oliver closes the door to their room behind them does Elio mumble something.

“Sorry, what?” Oliver turns around. Elio looks a little sick all of a sudden.

“Just, don't laugh, okay. And don't get angry. I know it's presumptuous but... God, fuck it, he’ll probably ask you about it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… but I couldn’t resist. Anyway, I told him we were... engaged to be married.” Elio's face is burning while his hands are twisted into the worn hem of his bilious orange jumper, the color somehow matching his current complexion.

Oliver feels poleaxed, hot and cold at the same time. “Wha-at?” He croaks.

“I just wanted him to back off, Oliver, I swear.” Elio sounds miserable. “It was a joke, okay.”

Oliver’s head is suddenly empty; he’s totally lost for words.

Elio is crumbling before his eyes, obviously taking his silence for disapproval. “I know, sorry, it's nothing to joke about but-” He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he's about to bolt. On autopilot, Oliver reaches out, grabs his shoulder, to steady them both.

Elio shuts his mouth abruptly. His fingers have found a lose thread that he’s twisting round and round his pinkie.

He stills when Oliver forces himself to speak: “No, I mean, yes. I mean, no. No joking. Shit.” He’s stuttering. Fuck, he needs to get a grip.

They both are silent, the only sound in the room their labored breathing as if they just ran a marathon and not just walked down a flight of stairs.

“I shouldn't have said anything.” Elio's voice is low, almost inaudibly. “I know what you and Rachel had... was special… once in a lifetime. Well, I really don't want you to think I'd assume-”

While Oliver removes his hand and steps back, pictures flash in front of his eyes. But they are not pictures from the registrar's office in Brixton in which he and Rachel had gotten married in jeans and t-shirts – what he sees are exploding fireworks in an ink-black Italian sky, a bottle of champagne, he and Elio on the balcony, and just as the bells of the cathedral in Crema chimed midnight, Oliver would’ve gone down on one knee, pressing a small box into Elio's hand.

It would have been so romantic.

Best laid plans…

His first wedding had been a very prosaic ceremony, and his proposal to Elio seems to follow this pattern. Maybe that's just who he is – practical, no nonsense, simple.

He walks over to the wardrobe as if pulled there by gravity, aware that Elio is still talking but his words somehow don't penetrate Oliver's auditory passage, becoming white noise as he finds the small box immediately despite the chaos Elio's has caused in their closet earlier.

When he turns and takes two, three steps in Elio's direction he becomes aware that Elio is quiet by now, biting his lower lip, standing forlorn in the middle of the room.

Oliver clears his throat, takes one of Elio's trembling hands, carefully unwinding the bright orange thread from his pinkie because the fingertip has turned white already.

“Baby,” he sinks down onto his knees. Something changes in the atmosphere.

Elio’s hand feels a little sweaty.

Oliver fumbles with the box to open it. The silver ring shines bright on its black velvet bed. He raises it, pressing it in the hand he's holding, covering it with his own.

Elio frowns, his fingers tentatively exploring the box, the soft cushion, finally finding the hard metal band resting on it.

“I had such grand plans but I think this moment is as good as any.” Oliver has trouble getting the words out. Why is his throat so dry? “Okay... so, Elio Perlman, will you marry me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, will Elio say yes?
> 
> Also, please note that Vincent is very German. He's angry because he can't get a refund for the book as he dedicated it to Oliver...
> 
> The songs they dance to are this
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoco58gF8h0
> 
> and this
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gPz8sCWNRw


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't really think Elio would say no, did you?

Elio is nervous. 

Thankfully, Oliver had been understanding when he'd explained how much he hates wearing a tux. Bow ties might be cool but they are a menace if you're blind. So he's opted for something more casual – black jeans, white dress shirt. And good shoes. Black leather boots. Shoes are important – his grand-mere has taught him to never go cheap on shoes and his haircut.

But it's not just his fashion choices that have Elio in cold sweat.

Fuck, he's not even 21 yet but he's getting married today.

Who'd thought?

Elio vividly remembers the shock of Oliver proposing. At first, he didn't understand what was happening. Then he did. And it had terrified him.

He'd felt Oliver get on his knees. He'd had no idea what to do about it. Then something rectangular, softish, had been pressed into his right hand. It had felt a little like an expensive stuffed animal, only it had had the wrong shape.

Fumbling around, his fingers had suddenly encountered something cool and hard, smooth, small, round... Oh god! The last time he'd encountered a ring in Oliver's presence had been a disaster.

What was he supposed to do?

He'd heard Oliver clear his throat. “I had such grand plans but I think this moment is as good as any.” Oliver had rasped. And then, the big question Elio had known was coming but still had been unable to believe hearing – ever. “Okay... so, Elio Perlman, will you marry me?”

What are you supposed to say to that, early on Boxing Day morning, with cold feet, wearing one of your dad's old jumpers, a stale taste in your mouth and unfulfilled sexual desire on your mind?

Well, whatever the circumstances – there really are just two answers to this. Say no, and everything ends. Elio might just be twenty, but he's quite aware that refusing to marry someone will be the death blow to any relationship. Maybe not instantly, maybe some brave or rather desperate soul would drag on for a while, trying to mend, to fix the unfixable, forgive the unforgivable, but even they would have to conceit at some point that things died the moment one of them uttered that little adverse word, two letters crushing all hope.

But that had not been the dilemma here. Elio's problem had been that he'd wanted to say YES even before Oliver had finished asking his question. And that had scared him shitless. Why was he so eager? Was he so dependent on Oliver that he couldn't think of anything better than tying his whole life to the other man's at barely twenty? Was he so needy? Couldn't he be a strong, independent adult? _Shouldn't_ he be a strong, independent adult before taking this huge leap? It had frightened Elio that he hadn't been afraid but instead had thought that this was the best idea the both of them ever had had.

And what would Oliver think if he said yes right away? Wouldn't Elio come over as helpless, dependent, a stranded damsel in distress waiting to be swept away, rescued by a knight in shining armor? Could Oliver respect him if he consented too eagerly, too quick?

Then he'd become aware that he'd been silent maybe way too long to say yes at all because Oliver had almost begged: “Elio, please, could you please say something, anything? Or at least breathe? Please, baby?”

And Elio, who's thoughts had been going a thousand miles an hour, had said the first thing that had come to his mind, truly surprised that he'd been able to form words at all, even a whole sentence, as he'd apparently been unable to express the single, most basic phrase of the English language, one of the first we learn as toddlers. What had come out of his mouth instead of an affirming or negating answer had been: “Same-sex marriage isn't legal in Italy.”

But Oliver - his marvelous, kind, empathic Oliver - had totally understood what he'd meant, because he'd gotten up from the floor, had picked Elio up (who'd still been clutching the box containing his ring in his fist) and had twirled him around a few times before dropping him onto the bed.

“I'd take that's a yes, then, when you're already thinking about the practical side of things?”

Elio had felt his body go hot all over, right down to his icy toes. “Of course, it's a yes.” He'd whispered – and then he'd started to cry so hard Oliver had ended up with snot all over the chest of his soft sweatshirt.

“Hey, baby, calm down, it's fine. I love you.” But Elio had heard him snivel as well.

It had taken Elio a moment to get his breath back under control, wiping his face with the sleeves of dad's old jumper.

“Okay. Phew... I'm okay, I guess. Can you put it on?” And he'd raised his right hand. He'd felt Oliver's fingers tremble against his as he'd slid the cool metal band onto his ring finger.

“It fits perfectly.” Oliver had whispered, and then he'd kissed Elio so hard he'd thought he'd tasted blood.

Later, when Elio's right hand had been wrapped around Oliver's leaking cock, their breath mingling in the barely existent space between them, Elio had moaned: “Tell me how it looks!”

“God, Elio. Beautiful, it looks beautiful. Your slender fingers, the ring reflecting the early sunlight, my thick cock,” that had earned Oliver a slap with Elio's free hand because, yes, Oliver is big but he shouldn't get too smug about it. “Ouch! Hmmm, I like that, you getting a little forceful... and now you're mine. Mine!” Oliver's huge hand had wrapped around Elio's and together they'd stroked him to completion, Oliver coming all over Elio's new jewelry, christening it with the most sacred fluid.

And even later, after Oliver had sucked Elio off in return, as they'd lain in bed and heard the house waking up, espresso scent wafting up the stairs, Elio had asked again, a little calmer now: “Describe it to me.” He'd smiled, the fingers of his left hand playing with the now somewhat sticky ring on his right.

“It's silver, simple, no stone or pattern. But...”

“Yes?” Elio had rested his head against Oliver's shoulder, sleepy again after the excitement of the early morning.

“I found it here in Crema in a little antiques shop behind the cathedral. I was just looking for some interesting bric-a-brac for the class to draw in a sill life study, back in summer shortly after you'd left.”

“You bought it back then?” This had surprised Elio.

“Yeah, I even took it to Paris with me for your birthday but that didn't seem... right. Anyway, it sat in that shop in its little velvet box and I don't know... I had to take a closer look at it. And do you know what I discovered?”

“No-o.” Elio grins against warm skin.

“Well, yeah, obviously...,” Elio had punched him and Oliver had laughed. “Okay, inside I noticed an engraving reading _'E &O Cor Cordium 1983'_. And... I took it as a sign. I mean, it very likely stands for... Ernesto and Olga or whatever, but...” Elio had felt Oliver shrug.

“Cor Cordium. I like that. _'Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change, Into something rich and strange'_...”

“Byron?”

“Actually, that's from Shakespeare, The Tempest, but it's written on Byron's grave in Rome.”

“Still, a little gloomy. I've always preferred:  
 _Like a rose embower'd_  
 _In its own green leaves,_  
 _By warm winds deflower'd,_  
 _Till the scent it gives_  
 _Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves..._ ”

“You're a romantic. But you didn't deflower me. Speaking of scent, we should shower.”

Elio remembers feeling somewhat taller when walking down for breakfast, his right hand subtly a little heavier than his left. Yet no one had commented, at least none of the guests who had been probably busy with their own stuff. Only Vincent had been even chattier than usual that morning, and Elio had sat a little closer to Oliver, even asking him to butter his toast, something Elio is perfectly capable of doing himself. But that day he'd felt the need to stake a final claim.

But when he'd gone into the kitchen to find more coffee it had taken Mafalda barely ten seconds to hug him and congratulate him.

“Finally he makes a decent man out of you.” She'd kissed his cheek and Elio had giggled like a schoolboy.

And now, after months of preparation, a million phone calls, emails, hideous efforts to obtain all the necessary paperwork – they are back in New York for their big day.

Because in Italy all that's available to them is a civil union, which is not the same as marriage. They could have gotten married in France – which Oliver, as a romantic, would have liked but where they literally know no one except Elio's few acquaintances from the ballet school.

So they had decided on New York where many of both their friends live. As for family... well, Oliver had sent his brothers invitations, and to his enormous surprise they were coming. Oliver's voice had shaken a bit when he'd read their replies to Elio. They'd sounded a bit formal but sympathetic.

Elio had been maybe even more reluctant to invite members of his family, living all over the world anyway. But Oliver had persuaded him. “When we're married it won's stay a secret. Especially not in Crema. Better tell them beforehand. Prepare them for the shock.”

Elio had felt like a coward but had in the end emailed a few cousins, more informing them of the event than inviting them. 

That had earned him an angry phone call at one in the morning from his aunt from Milan. “Elio Perlman, you're like a son to me! I raised you since you were thirteen. I did everything I could for you. So, what were you thinking, telling Federico and Sabrina about your wedding – and not me? Hiding this from your family, your flesh and blood? That's not what I taught you!”

Elio had felt a lump on his throat. “I... I just thought you wouldn't approve.”

“Why? Is he ugly, a bad person? Does he drink like that bastard your aunt Sylvia buggered off with, who left her with five kids and no money?”

“No, no. But... he's, you know, a man...”

“Well, that might at least spare you the five kids, though these days anything is possible. So, we're coming, basta! Make a wish list! And nothing too cheap. Don't insult your family any further.”

After that, what had started out as an intimate little party with just a few of their closest friends had been threatening to turn into a lavish Southern European nuptial festivity, lasting several days.

Thank god for Marzia!

She'd organized everything, being in New York and not in Paris (Elio) or Crema (Oliver). And as they both were still rather broke, things had to be on the cheap side.

Marzia had found a great venue in the Bronx through her contacts, a dance studio that could be rented for all sorts of events, and got a discount between friends. Chiara organized a DJ. All relatives traveling from oversea insisted to pay for their journeys and accommodation themselves. Instead of presents from their New York student friends Elio and Oliver asked for food contributions to the buffet.

Three weeks ago, Elio returned to Barnard College and is again living in his dorm. It's strange after the intense year in Paris but he feels quite happy to be back with his friends. As much as he'd tried, the Ecole D'Opera had been a little too elitist for his liking. New York is much more relaxed; much more him.

Oliver only arrived three days ago. He's flat-sitting an apartment of a (former) colleague from Cooper Union, currently on a Europe trip. In exchange for his support he'll stay at the villa later the summer – after their honeymoon.

It had been a logistical and bureaucratic nightmare but in the end they had succeeded to send over all the necessary documents to apply for a marriage license. And now the big day has arrived.

Elio is nervously fumbling with the cuffs of his dress shirt. He and Oliver spent the last night apart, though there hadn't been any stag night arrangements. Everyone had strongly advised against it.

“You don't want to look like shit and puke into one of those artificial plants at the registrar's office on your wedding day.” Bob had said, recounting his sister's wedding.

Elio had agreed.

So they'd just had a few beers back at the dorm, celebrating love in general. Both Bob and Nguyen had had their girlfriends over, and in the end they'd all danced to a cheesy love song playlist on Spotify, Elio swaying in Chiara's arms (she'd split from Liz in spring and was now 'free to explore' as she put it).

“It's not too late, amore, we could still elope.” She'd told him, giggling, and in response he'd dipped her very low until she'd shrieked.

They all had been in bed by eleven.

Now Chiara is brushing Elio's hair, kneading wax into his curls while he's nervously bouncing his knee.

“He'll be on time, Elio.” She assures him again and again. “It's just 9:30.”

Oliver promised to pick him up by ten. Their appointment at the registrars is at 10:30, but it's just a block away. Afterwards, they'll move down to Hell's Kitchen, where there will be a Jewish ceremony at The Actor's Temple.

“God, Chiara, I think I'll throw up anyway.” Elio feels truly sick by now and wishes he could blame it on a hang-over.

“You'll be fine. Smile, baby, it's your wedding day.”

Elio pulls a face. Oliver is five minutes early.

“Wow.” Chiara sound truly impressed as she opens the door of their apartment.

“What's he wearing?” Elio shouts from the bathroom.

“Come here, darling, touch it.” Oliver sounds both cocky and nervous.

“Is that... velvet?”

“Yep, blood-red velvet. I thought you might like the feel of it. It looks dramatic.”

“It looks stunning.” Chiara assures him, her voice low and raspy.

“Here, keep still. The boutonniere.” They'd agreed on peach colored roses and Oliver is now fixing Elio's to his short black jacket.

They walk over to the registrar's office where they are met by a huge crowd or Perlmans mixed with Elio's friends, Oliver's colleagues – and two of his brothers.

Introductions have to be quick because there's already the next couple waiting. It's hugs, shoulder patting, kisses, and a few tears. Elio drifts through it, feeling disconnected and somewhat floating.

Then they are all ushered into the stuffy office and the clerk goes through the formalities. It's just an administrative act, and barely ten minutes later Oliver Weitzmann has become Oliver Perlman.

They kiss, exchange rings – now engraved with their own date and initials, worn on the third finger, left hand - everyone cheers, and then it's taxis for the richer guests and the subway for everyone else. People clap and whistle and Elio can't help, he has to grin, feeling proud as he holds Oliver's hand.

The ceremony at the temple moves him more than he'd thought. It had been Oliver's idea and now Elio is happy that he agreed to it. It gives the day meaning and depth. This is more than just a dry act of union or a big party. They get joined together by something older, deeper, more meaningful. Yes, they love each other, but they are now confirming it before their god. Elio feels the weight of centuries on his shoulders, but not in a bad way as he imagines his ancestors looking down upon him. Approvingly.

To shouts of Mazel tov they break the glass.

Their party is loud and wild. There are so many people. Everyone congratulates them, and Elio clinks glasses so often that he soon feels more than a little tipsy.

“Have you eaten?” Oliver asks and Elio can't remember. The next thing he knows, he's sitting down at a table with a plate put in front of him. “There's bread on nine o'clock, quiche at eleven, tomato salad on two. Eat.”

Elio doesn't dare to object.

He feels better afterwards. Which is a good thing because the DJ announces their dance.

They'd decided on an old disco hit, 'Lady, Lady, Lady', because it's cheesy, romantic, and slow, so they can cling at one another.

_Dancing behind masks_   
_Just sort of pantomime_   
_But images reveal_   
_Whatever lonely hearts can hide_

It's a little intimate moment before they are hurled back into the duties of newlyweds. Cutting the cake, listening to speeches by relatives and friends. Elio feels Oliver tensing when his brother Matt is announced.

“Olli, I'll make it short. At least we're invited to your second wedding. Thank you for that. I can see how much you love your husband. Preserve that love. You both deserve it.” He clears his throat. “Our parents aren't here today. But... as I said to mum, at least he's Jewish! Elio, have patient with him. All the best to you both.”

Elio is laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. Oliver hugs him tightly and whispers in his ear: “They send a check over 10k. I was about to return it but it can buy new boilers. For the villa.”

“We'll keep it.” Elio whispers back, kissing Oliver's cheek. “And we'll fuck in every refurbished bathroom.”

The night passes in a blur of tearful embraces, short convos with people he hadn't spoken to in years, toasts, dances, more dances.

“Everyone seems to have a good time.” His husband says to him when the midnight soup is served, putting an arm around his shoulder, smelling of whiskey, sweat, his aunts' heavy perfume and cigars.

“Can we leave then?” Elio asks.

“What?” Oliver sounds a little taken aback.

“Us. Leave. Now. I mean, I've enjoyed all of this but... I want to be with _you_ , tonight. Not with my aunts and uncles and cousins and our friends.” Elio leans into Oliver's touch, his nose brushing Oliver's jaw. “Husband.” The sound of it makes his cock swell.

Oliver seems to agree.

“Give me five minutes to call a taxi.” Oliver growls, capturing his mouth in a hot kiss.

They sneak out during another speech. Marzia quickly hugs them and promises to explain to everyone. When cool, fresh air hits Elio's face as they stand on the sidewalk, waiting for their car, he still feels dizzy. And bone-deep tired.

“Not sure about the wedding night, actually.” He mumbles.

“Oh, baby, we'll see about that. I mean, we've a lifetime ahead of us.”

In that moment, the enormousness of what they did today hits Elio with full force. But it's not frightening anymore.

It's utterly comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: their wedding night :)


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their wedding night... well, kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Elio has drunk a little too much and will throw up in this chapter. I know some of you really don't like that so here's a friendly warning.

Elio's head lies in Oliver's lap on their taxi ride back to the apartment he's staying at while his colleague is in Europe. Well, it's actually more of a loft, on Grand Street, Lower East Side, all rough brick walls and worn wooden floor, huge windows and high ceilings. Maybe it used to be a tailor shop? Now it's perfect for painting, and so there are easels, tables full of paint pots, brushes and various other drawing materials scattered all over the one long room.

It's evident Nathan lives alone.

The bed is a futon on the floor. The small kitchen unit holds only a few pieces of chipped china. At least the bathroom is partitioned off by a new drywall.

Oliver has to drag Elio up the one flight of stairs. It seems his husband has clinked glasses a bit too often with their guests.

His husband.

The sound of it.

“Come on, Elio. You can make it.”

“Sooorrryyy.” Elio slurs, leaning surprisingly heavy regarding his light frame against Oliver's shoulder as he unlocks the uncooperative metal door. Finally inside, he props Elio up against the brick wall while he turns the bolts. This is New York City after all, not peaceful Crema.

Oliver has had actually trouble adjusting to all the noise and all the people over here after a year spent in the quiet Italian countryside. Their artists retreat has really taken off, and they'd been able to fill four more courses during spring and early summer, allowing Oliver to put some money on the side for their wedding. Flights, drinks, invitations, a cake, centerpieces for the tables... he'd had no idea how many things were needed even for a somewhat simple party.

But now it's all over. And they both enjoyed it, Oliver is sure. Judging by the state of his husband maybe a little too much?

“You okay there?” He asks as he turns to face Elio, who's still leaning against the wall, his head hanging low now, his curls hiding his face.

When he just shrugs in reply he almost loses his balance, his feet skittering over worn floorboards.

“Hey, easy.” Oliver catches him in time before Elio can slide fully to the ground.

“So-orry.” Elio mumbles again, and then burps against Oliver's chest.

“Will you be sick?”

“Dunno...”

“Okay, let's get you to the bathroom.”

There, Oliver divests Elio of most of his clothes, just leaving his socks and underpants on before maneuvering him to the toilet, guiding his head over the bowl. He watches Elio retch and heave a few minutes but all he brings up is spit.

“Not working...” Elio chokes out eventually, trying to clamber to his feet.

“Then let's put you to bed.” Oliver tucks him in, getting a cup of water in want of a proper glass, placing it next to the futon.

“So sorry... for ruining...” Elio makes a vague gesture with his hand down his body.

“Wedding nights are overrated.” Oliver smiles down at him before returning to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He's staring at his face in the mirror, looking a little tired but his eyes are shining bright and he thinks _'Not bad for almost thirty'_ when he suddenly hears a wet noise from the main room, a splash, followed by some gargling and coughing.

“Oh fuck!”

Elio is sitting up in bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking greenish-pale even in the low light from the old bedside lamp. Oliver can just stop him from getting up and stepping right into his own puke.

“Stay... just stay where you are, baby.” Oliver first puts an arm around his shoulder and presses the cup against his lips, watching Elio take a few sips, before he starts to look for a cleaning rag to wipe up the mess Elio's made.

He only finds an old towel. Well, it'll have to do.

The slimy mass is startlingly pink – a mixture of half-digested wedding cake and champagne – and smells sour and outright awful but one look at a mortified Elio lying curled up on the mattress, shaking a little, makes Oliver annoyance evaporate.

He just ruffles Elio's hair and pulls a blanket over him. Only then does he realize that he's still wearing his good velvet suit. He quickly gets naked down to his underpants – tight, black, especially bought for this occasion though the center of his affection won't be able to see them - before he starts to mop the floor, gagging a little himself as he washes the rag out in the shower.

Well, he just promised hours ago in good times and in bad. Though he didn't anticipate to get tested so soon. Oliver sighs as he slips into bed behind his husband.

“For better and for worse, remember?” But Elio is just snoring softly by now, so Oliver snuggles up close to him, kisses his nape, and closes his eyes as well.

He'd thought he'd be hyped by all the excitement of the day but to his surprise he suddenly feels bone-deep tired. Unfamiliar peace settles over him because everything he wants and needs is lying in his arms, smelling faintly of sick.

“Oliver Perlman, bring me coffee!” He's woken way too early by a demanding voice still rough from sleep.

His new name still excites him but right now he just groans in reply and tries to pull the sheet over his head. Yet somehow Elio stole most of it during the night and is unwilling to give it back, outright holding the blanket hostage.

“Oliver! I.Need.Coffee!”

“Fuck off! God, I married a brat.” Oliver curses, tackling his flailing husband down onto the futon until he shuts up. As he stares down at him, panting, hair all over the place, eyes shining with mischief (how does he do that?) while his cheeks are tinted pink from the early morning exertion combined with the warmth of the summer night, not even the memory of Elio throwing up can stop Oliver from kissing him, long and deep.

He's starting to unwrap Elio from his cotton cocoon, allowing his hands to slide over the hard planes of his body while kissing down his neck, chest, hoping to finally get compensation for last night's missed opportunity, but his husband is not having any of it.

“Coffee! You're not having me before I had caffeine.” Elio quickly turns onto his side and wiggles away.

“Elio, baby, please, you've no idea in what state I am-”

“Oh, believe me, I do. It poked me in the thigh just a moment ago. Very impressive. _Very_ tempting. But not as tempting as a cinnamon latte.”

Oliver sighs. “At this place it will only be instant anyway.” He confesses. Nathan doesn't even have a fridge, surviving on take-out and coffee to go if Oliver is to draw any conclusions from the content of his bin.

“ _What?_ I'm filing for divorce. Or better, get the marriage annulled as we didn't consummate it.”

“Speaking of consummation-” Oliver's hand slides up Elio's thigh, having somehow sneaked beneath the sheet

“No! Go out and get coffee! I don't demand you slaying dragons just... bring me to the bathroom so I can get back to feeling human in the meantime. My mouth tastes as if I... _oh, fuck!_ ” Elio throws his slim body back onto the futon, hiding his face in his hands. “I did, didn't I?”

“Yes.” Is all Oliver says, by now conceding defeat and getting dressed in a pair of track pants.

“Ugh... sorry?”

“You apologized enough last night. But I'll remind you what a lightweight you are at the next party we go to. For the foreseeable future. Come on, let’s get you decent.”

Oliver leaves his spouse in the small bathroom after pressing a toothbrush into his palm. He knows Elio is able to manage and figure out the rest.

He doesn't just get coffee but also bagels with cream-cheese and salmon, lemon and black pepper at a deli a block down. Fifteen minutes later, Elio sighs happily while munching away on his breakfast in bed, sipping his latte with an expression Oliver hopes his cock will later evoke as well.

“This might actually be even better than sex.” Elio mumbles between two bites.

“Now that you've trapped me you tell me that?” But Oliver has to agree that coffee and food feel actually quite nice right now.

“Okay, how about belated nuptials?” Elio grins as he drops his empty paper cup onto the floor and lies back against the pillows. “You had some ideas before I had to remind you of your connubialities.”

“Where do you get those words from?” Oliver is already crawling all over Elio, now kissing up from his navel.

“No, no, no, you were on your way down.” Elio is giggling, his flat stomach trembling as his hands push his black boxer briefs down.

“Was I?” Oliver whispers against his lower ribs, his stubble reddening the patch of pale skin it’s rubbing against as he speaks. His eyes stare at Elio's exposed cock as he kicks his pants away, the soft, pale-pink shaft lying curled up against its nest of short dark pubes (Elio trims them so they don't get entangled in his dance belt. Watching his blind lover handle scissors down there always gives Oliver the creeps).

So vulnerable. So trusting.

“Want your mouth there.” Elio cants his hips upwards, spreads his legs, pulling one knee up.

“Where exactly?” Oliver's breath ghosts over Elio's flesh, raising goosebumps on his belly.

“Don't make me say it.” Elio blushes.

“You know I love it when you say it. Spoil me, husband, to make up for last night when I mopped up your sick instead of taking you apart as I had planned.”

“Ugh, you know how to set a mood.” Elio cringes a little but that just brings his cock closer to Oliver's face.

“Say it. Tell me what to do.”

“Oh.” Elio's voice drops an octave just uttering this single sound. His face burns bright red. “Suck me off. Lick my hole.” His blush spreads lower, almost reaching where Oliver's face is resting against his ribcage.

Oliver has only waited for this husky order. He slides down Elio's silky skin, taking his stiffening cock gently into his mouth to suckle its tip tenderly. In response, Elio spreads his thighs even wider and allows Oliver to lie between them.

When he's fully hard, Oliver shoves a pillow underneath Elio's slim hips, raising his body to a convenient level. His pink hole is twitching in anticipation. When Oliver licks it it tastes of soap.

“Someone was thorough here this morning.” Oliver grins, nuzzling Elio's taint, pressing his nose to the spot just beneath his balls where Elio smells usually the most like himself.

“Shut up and eat me out!” Elio is almost whining.

Oliver sets to work eagerly, his tongue probing deeper and deeper into Elio's velvety, hot insides. The boy is writhing above him, at one point almost breaking his nose with a quick movement, grinding down against Oliver's face.

“Hey, careful!” His chin is sticky with saliva as he pulls away, pressing the pad of his thumb against Elio's wet entrance, just rubbing it to keep Elio on edge.

“Fuck, Oliver, sorry... but... just fuck me, will you?”

“Actually, I thought... well, we could switch, if you're game...?” He asks as he scoots back and gets up on his knees, reaching for the bottle of lube he's stashed next to the bed on a pile of books. When he looks at Elio his face is blotchy pink with arousal.

“You mean you want me to... fuck you?” His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

“Yes.” Oliver's mouth is dry. He so wants to give himself to Elio, his beautiful, beatific husband, it makes his hands shake and he almost drops the lube. “Please.” Oliver is still wearing the clothes he put on for his coffee run – sweat pants and a hoodie – but now he pulls the jumper over his head while he presses the lube into Elio's sweaty palm as he takes off his trousers before coating two of Elio's fingers with the greasy substance, guiding them between his spread legs while squatting over his midriff.

Elio is so careful, so gentle and attentive Oliver could cry. It's been a while since they've done it like this but it doesn't hurt as Elio's fingers breach him. He has an expression of wonder on his face – and of course he’s clever enough to quickly find Oliver's prostate.

“Fuck, yes.” Oliver moans and Elio's face splits into a wide grin.

“You like that? There?”

As an answer, Oliver puts Elio's other hand on his hard cock. “This is what you do to me, Elio. Can you feel it?”

Elio just nods, bites his lower lip, both his hands moving more assured, finding a rhythm, speeding up.

In return, Oliver grabs Elio’s hard cock that lies neglected against his belly, and gives it a firm tug. Elio gasps “God, yes.” and when Oliver starts to massage the spot right below the glistening head where he knows Elio is most sensitive it’s as if he’s opened a floodgate. Elio is leaking from his slit all over Oliver’s fingers and he has to suppress the impulse to put them into his mouth because that would mean to stop pleasuring his husband….

“Gorgeous.” Oliver tells him and in reply to this praise Elio adds another finger.

“Okay?” Elio asks a moment later.

He feels no ache or burn anymore, just the overwhelming need to be filled. “Yes. I’m ready for you, baby.”

Oliver helps Elio to line up, and as he slowly sinks down Elio's face contorts with pleasure, his pink mouth forming a perfect O.

This is everything.

Oliver cradles his face and bends down to steal a kiss, stifling the pained sounds threatening to escape him.

It feels a little weird, but only at first. Then, as Elio starts to thrust up, deeper inside him, it's like hot lead is filling his belly, his body going slack with pleasure.

“Good?” Elio asks against Oliver's mouth and Oliver exhales a yes back into his.

Because it is. Maybe not the physical act itself but what it does to Elio, reflected in his expressions. Need, bliss, tenderness, passion as he starts to fuck him, his movements becoming bolder, stronger, more and more ruthless as his hands grip Oliver’s hips tighter than those slender fingers seem capable of.

Oliver pushes one hand into Elio’s curls while the other drops to his own cock, stroking himself in time with Elio thrusts, taking what he wants while Oliver offers himself up.

Giving Elio this is pure delight and Oliver devotes himself to satisfying his husband with heart and soul, bouncing on top of him with unashamed abandon. So when Elio stills, spine arching, muscles flexing in his abdomen, Oliver's name falling from his parted lips – Oliver is right there with him, spilling over his own fingers while clenching all around Elio's pulsing cock, filling him with his white, hot seed.

They end up in a tumble of gooey limbs until his husband moves beneath him, trying to pull out. _‘Ah, not so fast, honey.’_ Oliver thinks and clamps down on Elio, whispering: “Let’s stay like this for a while. Wanna keep you.”

“But you have me.” Elio replies, so sincere that Oliver almost breaks into tears (he blames his post-orgasmic bliss for it but knows it’s a lie).

Later, when it's already afternoon and they've ordered pizza, wolfing it down in bed, Oliver raises Elio's slightly greasy hand to his lips.

His golden wedding band glints in the warm sunlight falling through the huge windows as Oliver kisses it.

“I still can't believe it.” He whispers.

Elio stretches, languidly like a cat. “Well, I knew when we first met-”

Oliver elbows him in the ribs, then tickles him until he's breathless and Elio has rolled into the remnants of his pepperoni and mushroom pizza. Oliver licks the hot, oily stains from his back before gently biting the swell of his ass.

“I want you again.”

“And how do you want me, Mr. Perlman?” Elio's voice is muffled by the pillow.

“Now I want _you_ to ride _me_ , Mr. Perlman.” Oliver lies back onto the futon, gently pulling Elio on top of him.

“Lube?”

Oliver hands it to Elio the second time today, then watches from his front row seat as Elio fingers himself open. He starts with one finger but quickly adds another, rolling his hips while moaning softly.

“Is that good, baby?”

Elio nods, biting his lower lip. Oliver gets hard just from watching but encourages his stiffening cock with slow tugs.

“Are you hard? I need you.” Elio's voice is rough, a little breathless.

“Yes, baby. I'm so hard for you.” Oliver guides Elio by the hips until he's squatting over the glistening head of his cock. It looks almost ridiculously big compared to Elio’s slim physique. Just the thought of watching his cockhead breach Elio has Oliver on the verge of coming again. Apparently, marriage has made a teenager out of him again. “Are you ready for me?”

Elio nods. Oliver rubs his cockhead against Elio's slick entrance, watching him frown as he waits for the intrusion, that sharp burn that will be almost too much at first. His eyes are open, unfocused, glazed over, the pupils blown wide. He’s the epitome of arousal, his own cock jutting out in front of him.

Oliver leans up, stretching his neck to lick Elio’s slit, tasting the bitter flavor of his precome. Surprised by his move, Elio gasps, and in that moment, Oliver pulls him down by his slim hips, feeling his cock slide inside him, Elio’s muscles fluttering around Oliver’s massive shaft.

He cries out, and Oliver stills, just his head inside Elio’s body, already throbbing as even more blood fills out his glans.

Elio is so soft, so warm, so tight. It's pure bliss. Oliver watches him sink down inch by inch, his body opening up, his hole stretched to its limits, the usually pink muscle almost white, moaning louder and louder as he takes it all. He is ecstatically grinning, though, evidently enjoying himself.

“Good?” Oliver asks when Elio is fully seated, giving him a moment to savor the feeling of being filled to the brim.

Elio nods again. “Yeah...” he breathes.

Again, Oliver lets him set the pace. At first, he rolls his hips experimentally, but he quickly dares to move more forceful. Oliver just loves the friction his body provides, the tight grip of Elio’s interior walls massaging him just right.

“Touch yourself, baby. Wanna watch you.”

Elio's left hand with his wedding ring wrapped around his cock almost gives Oliver a coronary.

“Come all over me.” He begs and Elio grins even wider, his hand speeding up.

“Greedy.”

“For you, always.” Oliver pushes up into him, answering Elio's movements with sudden urgency. He wants to fuck him senseless, wants to watch him fall apart. And Elio spoils him, his face contorting with lust and want as he lets him in just like Oliver has done a few hours before, giving and taking at the same time, unabashed, wild, unapologetically carnal and so fucking hot.

It's a terrible beauty Oliver is witnessing, the kind of otherworldly pulchritude that has driven painters insane throughout history. Elio is like a siren, a Gorgon, his sight almost too much for a frail-hearted human. His lips are swollen, his curls flying in every direction as he moves, his rosy skin covered with a sheen of sweat. His cock is now dark-red and stiff, the spongy head weeping onto Oliver's abdomen. It's sinful, sensual, lewd. It's glorious.

This is how he wants to die, Oliver thinks. No, this is how he wants to live, spending eternity with his very own sultry faun fucking himself on his hard cock, made to fit that voracious hole perfectly.

Well, at least they’ve done everything to make sure they'll be like this till death does part them. Hopefully many years later.

Now Elio clenches, a tell-tale sign that he’s close. Oliver grips his hips even harder and starts to pound up into him, trying to hit his sweet spot. Elio moans in response, thrusting faster into his own fist.

“Yes, Oliver, Fuck me.” 

“Fuck me, Elio.” 

Elio throws his head back and growls, just holding on, his free hand digging into the fur on Oliver’s chest, and then his muscle spasm around Oliver and he shoots hot semen all over his torso, his face contorting as he finally closes his eyes as if overwhelmed both by emotions and physical pleasure, primal and raw.

Seconds later, he slumps down onto Oliver's cum-drenched skin. “Hmmm,” he hums, rubbing the mess into Oliver's wiry chest hair.

“I love you.” Elio murmurs, on the edge of passing out.

“I love you more.” It's very likely true but it doesn't matter. A love like theirs feels beyond comparison. They complete each other, mending what life and fate hves tried and almost succeeded to break. Making them whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, they got there in the end :)


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, we jump a little forward in time - it's August, Elio's 21st birthday. Oliver has a surprise for him...

On the evening before his 21st birthday Elio is sitting on the terrace of the villa in Crema, listening to Mafalda in the kitchen while his husband splashes around in the pool. The night is warm and after lounging about in the garden all afternoon when Elio plunked away at the piano Oliver had wanted to cool off.

Elio smiles, drags on the one cigarette he allows himself on special days, then takes a sip of the chill white wine he could persuade Mafalda to open this early, though it's not a proper aperitif in her eyes.

He feels good. He's a bit afraid to admit it but he feels just so fucking good.

They've arrived two weeks ago after spending the early summer in New York. Married life so far has been... not much different from unmarried life, to be honest. They were just happy to be together in the same city, for once, and that's why Elio more or less moved in with Oliver. The commute from Nathan's loft to Barnard's for dance training sucked at first but he'd gotten used to it. It was just great to work with Marzia again. Francois had been an assiduous teacher but there's just a special bond between him and Marzia. She knows him and his abilities and limits best and he simply trusts her. They work like a symbiosis.

His dance teacher was pleasantly surprised with the progress Elio had made in Paris.

“You got way more expressive, Elio. And precise. I love your style. That year did you good.”

Marzia agreed.

“I've missed you, you little rascal.” She said after their first rehearsal, ruffling his hair.

“I've missed you too.” He leaned against her, nuzzling her neck.

After the stress of the wedding planning was over, they all went out together a lot; Elio and Oliver, Marzia, Chiara and the various people – girls and boys – who were sharing her bed. Sometimes to the beach, but mostly clubbing, often at _Front_. Oliver eased up and seemed to try to soak up as much of the city as possible before his return to tranquil Crema.

So the summer passed quickly for Elio in a whirlwind of training and partying while Oliver cut his last ties with New York. He formally resigned from Cooper Union and liquidated the stuff he'd put into storage, either selling pieces or giving things away for free to student friends of Elio or charity.

When Elio asked him if he regretted leaving on their last evening in the US Oliver just laughed and said: “I've been here long enough. And I'm sure I'll come visit again. But this chapter of my life is over.” He rested his chin on Elio's shoulder, hugging him from behind. “I have a new place where I want to be now. I feel close to you in Crema even when you're not there with me. Knowing you grew up there, that it is the place you call home... it helps me when I'm missing you.”

“If you stayed here you wouldn't have to miss me.” Elio replied.

“But that would mean to lose your home. No, Elio, we already made it through the first year, we can do another until you graduate from Barnard. Or... do you want to get rid of the house now? I mean, in a few weeks you'll get your money, maybe you want to do something else with it than subsidizing a crumbling palazzo?”

“Shut up.” Elio smiled, leaning back against Oliver's strong body.

The next day, they flew to Italy.

Those last two weeks have been their honeymoon. After their return, they took Mafalda and Anchise to the best restaurant in Crema to celebrate their wedding with them again. Mafalda criticized every course but Elio was aware that she enjoyed getting pampered.

Nothing has changed in his interactions with his relatives. Well, maybe they don't mention _frocis_ that often now that one of their own is married to a man, but that's about it. They still go swimming in the river, go dancing at night, have lavish lunches and dinners at the villa with vicious discussions in Italian and English (Oliver has improved exceptionally in Italian cussing which he can practice a lot at these occasions).

Elio and Oliver still don't dance together, though his cousins assure them they wouldn't mind. Yet Elio is not ready to risk upsetting the fragile bliss he's living in.

Next week, both Nathan and Marcel will arrive.

Marcel, who'd of course had been aware that Elio was planning his wedding during Spring. Marcel, who'd still continued to go to PSG with him, only maybe hadn't sat that close on the Metro or in the stadium anymore. He'd said nothing though. Elio is still not sure what to make of it. He might just have imagined it... but he believes there had been some sort of spark between him and Marcel last autumn that had cooled down when Elio had eventually mentioned Oliver. But then Marcel accepted the invitation to Italy for the last week of August, just before training will start in Paris again. Marcel made it into the Corps de Ballet. Elio is proud of him and looking forward to meeting him again, to show him around...

Mafalda putting something on the table brings him back to the here and now.

“Shall I help you?” He asks, but a wet hand on his shoulder stops him.

“You stay here, birthday boy. I'll give Mafalda a hand.”

“Dry yourself off first, Ulliva. And put some clothes on!” Mafalda sounds so scandalized that Elio bursts out laughing.

"It's not my birthday until midnight!" He shouts after them as they retreat to the kitchen.

The dinner is lovely. They start with cheese and salami before a mushroom risotto, followed by lamb chops with fried potatoes, a spinach salad – and finally a peach tart for _dolci_. After the coffee, Oliver uncorks a bottle of champagne, but seems careful to refill Elio's glass when he asks for it.

“Remember our wedding night?” He teases.

But when they hear the faint bells of the cathedral strike midnight, Elio is allowed another glass. Mafalda and Anchise hug and kiss him and wish him many happy returns but go to bed soon after, and then it's just Elio and Oliver alone in the garden.

“Happy birthday, husband!" Oliver's kiss tastes of peach, cream and champagne. "How rich are you now, if I may ask?” He has pulled his chair close. Elio can feel his warmth as the night has gone a little chilly.

“Oh, don't be vulgar.” Elio giggles.

“I know you spoke to your lawyer today... well, yesterday, actually.” Oliver sounds equally embarrassed and curious.

“I would be much richer if I didn't have this ruin to maintain.” Elio gestures vaguely in the direction of the house.

“No, for real, Elio, so we can make plans.” Oliver seems rather sober. And serious.

“What are you, a fortune hunter?” Elio tries for a joke to soften the shock.

“Remember, I married you when you were still poor as a church mouse.” Oliver quickly pecks him on the cheek.

“Mhhh... okay, as of a few minutes ago, I came into possession of four million Euros.”

Oliver makes a choked noise. “Jesus fuck me!” It sounds as if Oliver takes a huge gulp of champagne. “How did your grandma make so much money?”

“She was a shrewd old bitch.” Elio barks a laugh. “Played the black market after the war, then invested in car manufacturing in the fifties. Got out in time. And she was a real scrounger, my mother told me.”

“Four million Euros! You could found your own dance company with that much money.” Oliver still sounds perplexed.

“I could if I hadn't already founded an art school. The Perlman Art Retreat proves to be quite successful.”

“We can do the roof now. Put a proper heating in. Solar panels. I want this place to be as environmental friendly as possible.”

“I can't wait for you to tell Mafalda to go vegan.” Elio snickers.

“Okay, there are limits.” Oliver kisses him again. “Uhm... baby, I actually have a surprise for you inside, even as you are a millionaire now. Just give me a minute, will you?”

“Sure.”

Elio listens to Oliver's retreating footsteps. Then he's alone in the garden.

But is he?

It suddenly feels as if someone is close. The hairs on Elio's nape stand to attention. He turns instinctively, reaching out – but his hands just grab thin air.

“Hello?” He whispers. “Is someone there?”

It's not words he hears... neither laughter. But he suddenly feels warm all over, as if someone or something is embracing him. A presence... There might even be soft lips pressed to his temple. But the sensation is fleeting, gone before he can fully grasp it.

The next thing he hears are heavy footsteps. When a hand touches him he jumps.

“Hey, sorry, I didn't want to upset you. You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“It's nothing...,” Elio clears his throat. “Is my surprise ready?”

Oliver takes his hand and leads him inside.

Suddenly, Elio has a vivid flashback to his birthday last year, the sweet agony Oliver has put him through. What will it be tonight? For Oliver's birthday, Elio had bought some silky underwear – with Marzia's help, making her swear to never talk about it to anyone ever on everything that's dear and holy to her. The effect of it had been... quite worth the money he'd spend. Sadly, the lace panties had gotten ripped apart in the heat of the moment...

Elio gets aware where Oliver is taking him when they climb the creaking stairs up to the attic. It smells of sun, wood, dust - and bees wax. Candles. Elio smiles.

“Now it's my turn up here.” Oliver says before kissing him tenderly on the lips. “Sit.”

Elio carefully lowers himself onto what feels like one of their wooden kitchen chairs. Oliver's hands brush his skin as he reaches beneath his t-shirt, pulling it off over his head. Then his fingers are on the fly of Elio's jeans, unbuttoning them before pulling them down.

He's just in his boxer briefs now.

“I hope they fit.” Oliver says, handing him a square cardboard box.

Elio's finger fumble to lift the lid. Inside, there's a lot of tissue paper, rustling as he touches it. It's wrapped around something soft yet solid, delicate, sleek...

“Oh, wow.” Elio breathes. “I'm not sure I'll be able to...”

“Please, just try it. For me.” It sounds as if Oliver is kneeling in front of him by now.

Elio has been barefoot the whole evening. Now, Oliver is gently lifting his right foot, kissing its arch, while Elio lets his fingers explore the silky texture of the shoes he's just unwrapped, touching the hard sole, admiring the smooth satin. The pointe is solid, almost brutal in contrast to the slick daintiness of the rest of the shoes. Elio wraps the long ribbons around his fingers, wondering if he can do it.

“Pointe is torture, you know that?” He asks.

“I just want to see you put them on.” Oliver's voice is rough, shaky.

“Okay.” Elio smiles.

The shoes are tight. So tight. Usually, one would stuff the tip. Some use bubble wrap, others chicken breast. He'd also rough up the pointe, best with sandpaper, as not to slip on the dance floor.

But this is not for dance, just for show. So he squeezes his feet into those narrow pointe shoes and starts to tie the ribbons around his ankles. He's aware that Oliver is watching, and by the sound and smell of it he's got his cock out and is stroking himself.

“Does that turn you on that much?” Elio asks.

“Fuck, yes.” Oliver pants.

Elio grins. “Okay, then watch.” He reaches out. Oliver takes his hands and pulls him up until he stands on pointe.

It hurts like hell, like he's walking barefoot on bard wire. His calve muscles strain from the unfamiliar stretch. His center feels off. He's never danced on pointe before. He feels strangely tall as he seeks his balance, his hands still clutching to Oliver's.

“Can you just... I don't now... take a few steps? Maybe do a turn?”

Elio stalks around like a newborn foal, his feet and legs hurting, trembling. But slowly he finds his stance and posture, pulling his shoulders back, tensing his abdominal muscles. It feels weirdly elegant, his legs unusually elongated. He carefully tries a few steps. He didn't warm up so he can't do much without risking injury, but he nevertheless goes for a pirouette. He thinks he manages just fine, but just as he's about to land he topples. His fucking right ankle! Thank god Oliver is there, catching him.

“God, you're the sexiest thing I've ever seen.” Oliver groans, kind of dragging Elio through the attic before lowering him onto the mattress he remembers. The sheets feel freshly starched against his skin.

Oliver takes his left foot in his hand and starts kissing up his leg from his instep.

“So.Fucking.Beautiful.”

“You want me to wear a tutu as well?”

“Shut up. You've no idea how your legs look like this. And your bum. All hard muscle. Fuck!”

And with that, Oliver is throwing Elio onto his stomach, pulling his boxer briefs down to expose his ass. A cold dollop of lube lands between his cheeks, quickly followed first by two fingers and then the blunt head of Oliver's cock.

“God, yes.” Oliver gasps as he pushes in, his hands sliding up the back of Elio's legs. He fucks him hard and fast, one hand wrapping around Elio's cock to jerk him off in time.

It feels glorious.

Elio moans, trying to spur Oliver on. He needs it. Just like this. Not gentle and tender; he wants to be owned. Wants to give everything to his husband. They'll be separated soon. He needs to make memories to feed on back in New York with Oliver not there.

And Oliver will need those memories as well. Elio is not a jealous person but he's learned a thing or two over the last year spend apart.

Oliver doesn't slow down, giving him what he needs. It's so fucking good, Elio would gladly pay one of his millions to Oliver just for fucking him like this. What a fee that would be! He doesn't care about the money anyway. Just about the good and happiness it can buy.

Elio comes first, almost screaming Oliver's name, and then he feels Oliver flood his insides with his hot cum. When he pulls out immediately afterwards Elio is about to protest but then he feels Oliver's lips against his hole and is sure he'll pass out.

He doesn't.

Instead, he enjoys Oliver eating him out, licking up his own semen trickling from Elio's hole. He would come again but he's just too spend.

Only when Oliver seems satisfied that he's cleaned him up alright does he gather Elio up in his arms and carries him down the narrow stairs and up into their bed. Elio protests and giggles the whole time but Oliver doesn't mind – and doesn't take it serious either.

In their bed, he carefully takes off the pointe shoes, sucking each of Elio's toes with such abandon that it finally does it for him and he comes again, splattering his stomach with sticky cum. Oliver laps it up, kissing his way up to Elio's lips on which he eagerly tastes his own flavor.

“God, this is dirty.” He sighs.

“Do you mind?” Oliver suckles his neck, wrapping his arms around him.

“Not at all.” Elio grins.

He's 21. He's rich. He's fucking happy. Literally. He's in love. Life couldn't be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, we are nearly there. 
> 
> The next chapter will be a sort of epilogue, taking place 5 years later.
> 
> Thank you for going on this journey with me!


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kind of epilogue - five years later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Journeys end...

~5 years later~

Elio has been on a plane to Milan countless times over the past few years – but he still hates flying. It might even get worse with time. Right now, he's trying to calm his anxiety with a stiff Vodka but claws to the armrests of his seat every time they hit an air pocket.

Flying might even feel worse than driving in a car.

But there's no other way. If he wants to meet his husband he has to take a flight every couple of weeks. He shamelessly makes use of his cane to be allowed on board early and get a seat at the front so he can exit quickly.

To get to Oliver as soon as possible. They don't have time to waste during his short visits. Elio will only eventually relax when Oliver hugs him at the arrival’s gate, grabbing his bag despite Elio's protests before leading him to the car.

Oh, the things that little farm track near Moscazano has seen over the years! Even after being married for five years, they never make it from the airport to the villa in one go. It has become their tradition, quite literally a beloved ritual, to take the edge off by that field that smells of sunflowers in the summer and burned plant stubble in the winter.

Now, in spring, the scent of fresh green leaves will fill the old car, almost masking the smell of Anchise's black cigarillos rising from the threadbare seat covers…

Elio tries to concentrate on the thrill of anticipation (and his rather lewd yet very detailed sexual fantasies) when the plane starts to shake again. Should he ask for another drink?

He remembers one flight where he’d been sure they would crash. He’d actually started praying the only prayer his parents had taught him, clutching his Star of David in one hand with his mobile in the other, telling Siri to call Oliver so he could say good-bye.

Yes, he knows his message sounded sappy and melodramatic. He doesn’t regret it, though. The shag he’d gotten on that farm track later that day was one of the best he’s ever had. He’s pretty sure Oliver has his pledge of undying love, interspersed with the odd curse and rather unmanly shriek, still saved on his cell phone.

For rainy days. There have been a few…

As he remembers, the plane jumps, then drops. As Elio pulls off his headphones with sweaty hands he hears a stewardess passing with her competent, assured stance and decides it’s okay to order another Smirnoff.

He might as well walk down the whole memory lane now, as he has nothing better to do than getting wasted to suppress his fear of flying.

Elio's last year at Barnard had been a drag. Not artistic-wise, mind. Elio had soared in class, flourished, surprising even Marzia. But contrary to his progress in dance, his love life was steadily declining. True, he now had money – but neither he nor Oliver had _time_ for each other. Oliver was busy with the art retreat and necessary renovations, while Elio was excessively training and rehearsing for his exams and final performances.

Due to his workload, his right ankle played up again in November; it turned out to be an Achilles tendon injury, which forced him to rest from dance and undergo physical therapy all through December. When things didn't improve he eventually had to see a specialist. Finally, with a mixture of cortisone and massages, things got better. But that winter he'd been so preoccupied with his health that he simply couldn't imagine going to Italy. Instead, he went from doctor to doctor in New York, wishing for Oliver to be with him. He understood that he had to teach a course in Crema, but still – what was a marriage worth when he couldn't have his husband around to support him in these dark days?

Those had been tough times.

Then, when he'd finally gotten better, he had so much catching up to do that it was June before they saw each other again at Elio's graduation.

During that lonely year, Elio had done a few things he isn't proud of. He'd smoked a lot when forced to rest, even pot, though he didn’t like it very much. He’d made out with Chiara one night, but kept his hands above the duvet, so to speak. And he’d hooked up with a man he met during physical therapy, not a dancer but a builder, ten years older, seeking help after suffering from a prolapsed disk. They'd gone for a drink a few days before Christmas and had ended up at the guys place, fucking their brains out over a dirty weekend.

The touch of his rough hands had burned like fire on Elio’s skin.

He still blames it on his fragile state back then. They didn't meet again and he can't even recall his name.

He never told Oliver. Or anyone.

But afterwards, he’d understood what Oliver had meant when he'd offered him carte blanche. Yet it didn't make him feel any better.

After his graduation, Elio had been full of grand plans. His goal had been to join one of the famous contemporary dance companies. And everything had looked great for him back then. He’d seemed to have a bright future ahead as he joined the Heidi Latsky Dance Company, based in New York, made up of disabled and non-disabled dancers.

It was an exciting time. They went on tour, gave classes to other disabled dancers, worked for installations, museums, art projects...

He was so busy (and happy to be working) that he had to adjourn two flights to Italy that autumn because suddenly a new event came up. When he'd canceled his trip for Christmas because the MoMa wanted to cooperate with HLD for a special installation over the holidays, Oliver had just hung up on him, not even bothering to complain anymore.

Two days later, he'd been waiting in front of the company's rehearsal room at the Baryshnikov Arts Center, giving Elio the fright of his life when he'd said hello.

At least he'd been able to honestly swear to Oliver that his evasiveness wasn't about another man. Elio had been so busy he didn’t even have time for an affair.

They'd spend an awful week together in Elio's shabby apartment that he shared with two fellow company members and a million cockroaches, arguing back and forth, playing the blame game, screaming the place down before having sweaty, wild make-up sex in Elio’s unmade, too small bed. He’d been grateful that he was unable to see the expressions of his flatmates and neighbors on the mornings after because the paper-thin walls didn’t do anything to absorb the noises of their aggressive lovemaking.

When Oliver had left early in the New Year they'd promised each other that things had to change. So Elio had visited Italy in March and May, and during the summer transferred to London to join the Candoco Dance Company, another troupe made up of disabled and non-disabled dancers.

He'd been their first blind dancer, though, but the work was fun and truly inspiring. And London was so much closer to Crema. That’s when they started so visit each other every few weeks.

Their relationship had blossomed. As had Elio's career.

Until a fatal day in January. He still remembers the sound of his Achilles tendon rupturing during rehearsal, like the hiss of a whip in the air. His right leg had given out immediately while a sharp pain shot up his body, making him scream as he crashed to the floor mid-motion.

After the operation he had to wait for five weeks before starting rehab. He'd climbed the walls. Not even Oliver visiting had provided enough distraction. Sex had been complicated with one leg in a cast up to Elio's groin. Yet where's a will there's a way they discovered...

Only later had it turned out that even five weeks hadn't been enough for Elio’s body to heal. His leg never quite recovered from his injury, resulting in permanent pain when he put on a full schedule of performances, training and rehearsals.

For a time, Elio managed with painkillers, yet the amount he had to swallow to control the pain increased steadily. He was used to taking heavy medication now and then for his recurring headaches, and therefore was able to obtain analgesics without fully disclosing the cause of his ailment, claiming he needed them to fight the long-term effects of the car crash. He didn’t tell anyone about this self-medication. He feared to get kicked off the company if the true state of his fucked-up body would become known.

This set off a vicious cycle. He denied his body the rest it needed and instead took more drugs to perform, worsening the damage to his ankle due to overexertion, calling for even higher doses of painkillers.

When he'd stayed in Italy for a few days the next autumn and the airline had managed to lose his luggage, it all came crashing down and he had to face the fact that he'd become somewhat dependent on the stuff. He yelled at an Italian doctor when he refused to write him a new prescription for OxyContin, then literally begged Oliver on his knees to drive to Milan on a Sunday afternoon to at least get him Targin from an emergency pharmacy.

“This is not about your headaches, is it?” Oliver had asked as he'd pressed the small bottle into Elio’s hand two hours later. Elio was by now sweaty, shaking, his whole body ached while his mouth was dry and he felt like throwing up.

“Fuck off. What do you know?” He bit back, clutching the pills to his chest, trying to peel the lid off.

“I've read the leaflet. It says highly addictive, not to be taken over a longer period of time. Elio, what's going on?” Oliver had sounded truly worried.

So, after allowing him to swallow two pills dry, Oliver had sat him down on their bed, took his hand, and had waited until Elio had felt ready to tell him about his gammy leg.

“This is not the way.” His husband had said after listening to his confession, taking the pills from him before starting to massage his ankle. “Talk to the choreographer, to the director. You need a break.”

“A break for a dancer means he's finished. If word gets outthat my body’s a wreck no one else will hire me.”

“So you want to depend on pharmaceuticals for how long, the next ten years? Dancing, even moving in constant pain until your ankle is so badly damaged you'll need another cane to just walk? Is it really worth it, Elio?”

Elio had bitten his lip and said nothing. But a few weeks after his return to London he asked for sick leave, explaining his condition. As the company had some paraplegic dancers they had contacts to the very best orthopedists in London. One of them told Elio that he would probably never dance again and would be lucky if he could walk one day without being in pain if he didn't stop overdoing things. Now.

Instead of kicking him out, however, Candoco gave him the chance to work on their youth program, teaching kids and young adults with all sorts of disabilities. Of course, he needed the help of a sighted dancer, but the work was rewarding and inspired Elio to venture into choreography himself, developing dance routines for visually impaired people.

This had brought him into contact with a venue called The Place, the most influential center for contemporary dance in London. He’d started to offer courses there, and to collaborate with the resident Richard Alston Dance Company. It was Elio's first project outside the ghetto of disabled dancing – but not his last.

Already the first piece he’d choreographed for their program (with the help of a sighted trainer) became a huge success – without the audience knowing that Elio was blind. It even won a National Dance Award for Best Modern Choreography.

He’d called Marzia from backstage at the award's ceremony, making her listen to the audience clapping and cheering when his name was announced, and they both had cried a little.

So as of now, he only rarely dances with the Candoco Company. He's instead making a name of himself as a choreographer in London – and all over Europe. He just attended a contemporary dance festival in Helsinki. The best thing is when people react surprised to his impairment upon meeting him in person for the first time.

He's also started to teach an open class for blind and visually impaired people at the Royal Opera House where the Royal Ballet usually trains. Setting foot onto these sacred floorboards has been a highlight of his professional life.

His new line of work allows him to go to Italy more often between productions. Which is good, because Oliver is really busy running the Perlman Art School. It isn't just a retreat any longer. Two years ago they hired two additional teachers and are currently trying to get officially recognized as an educational provider. Dealing with the Italian bureaucracy demands the patience of a saint for the duration of the process, but things are looking good and they hope to start operating properly as a private art institute after the summer holidays.

Many of their old guests have kept in touch, spreading the word and singing Oliver’s praise as a teacher, a far better promotion than putting up ads online or in art magazines.

Even Vincent writes a card for Christmas every year. He’s currently doing a Master’s degree at Cooper Union, of all places.

Oliver is often exhausted these days, but it's the good kind of exhaustion. Elio can understand how important the school is to him, setting up something real and recognized instead of indulging some private whim. And Elio is fucking proud of him.

The crackling voice of their pilot announcing their imminent landing takes Elio back to the here and now. He presses his head back against his seat and hopes to survive another touchdown, his head swimming a little from the two Vodkas he’d had on an empty stomach (just the thought of food on a travel day makes him want to puke).

A friendly stewardess leads him off the plane ten minutes later. She smells nice, Elio notices on his way to baggage reclaim, and her accent reminds him a bit of Chiara, who's been working for a UNHCR project with disabled refugee children in the Middle East these past few years. They sometimes meet when she's in London, getting drunk while complaining about their spouses (right now she’s dating a prominent American actress she met at a fund raiser).

When Elio walks out of the arrival’s gate, it only takes a few seconds for Oliver to shout his name. And then he's wrapped up in strong arms, lifting him off the floor.

“Let me down.” He laughs.

“Never. I'm never letting go off you. I'll carry you all the way to Crema.” Oliver kisses him, and Elio opens his mouth, neither shy nor inhibited. Because this is his man, the love of his life. The light of his life, his beacon in a world of darkness, and if anyone objects to them exchanging caresses in public they can suck his dick. Only metaphorically. “In fact, that’s not just me being romantic…”

“Wait, did something happen to the car? An accident?” Elio pulls back, taking Oliver's words in.

“Well... uhm... don't get upset...”

And then Oliver takes his hand and leads him through the terminal while telling him a long and winding story about Anchise crashing the car – nothing happened to him, Oliver repeats at least three times – after a drunken night out with a friend, and of course Elio gets upset, car crashes have that effect on him, sorry, and then Oliver explains that the insurance company provided a rental car (a Landrover) that doesn't smell of black cigarillos, and that is equally a good and a bad thing, and they argue about keeping it because Oliver likes it but it’s also a gas hog, until Elio feels for Oliver’s cock through his jeans in the middle of the Autostrada, but then they fear getting cum on the seats and thank god it's a warm spring afternoon so they can have sex on the grass by the side of the farm track next to the sunflower field, and life is messy and complicated and full of tragedy but also joy and they will manage, somehow.

Elio is sure of that as he comes down Oliver's throat while his strong hands grip his hips, anchoring him.

And isn’t it some kind of wonder how their lives have led them to exactly this place in time and space, allowing them right now to exchange lazy kisses tasting of each other’s cum while the Italian sun shines down onto their partly naked bodies?

When they park in front of the villa twenty minutes later, Elio doesn't get out immediately. Why does he feel so nostalgic today?

“Oliver?”

“Yes.” Oliver stays in his seat as well, as if he senses that Elio wants to tell him something.

“Have you ever thought about what would've happened if I hadn't answered your notice on that blackboard, looking for a model?”

Oliver doesn’t answer for a long minute. Elio plays with his seat belt, breathing in the peculiar smell of a new car.

“Yes.”

“And?” Elio asks, somewhat impatient, turning towards his husband. The leather of his seat creaks with his movement.

“Well, for you, it would’ve probably made no difference. You might be sitting here with Marcel-” 

“As if! You really didn't like him when he came to visit that summer.” Elio snickers. It all seems so long ago.

“No. He looked at you in a way I don’t like other men looking at you. That’s my privilege.”

“Macho!”

“You like it.” There’s a grin in Oliver’s voice.

“And what about you?”

“Honestly?” Oliver takes his hand, squeezing it hard. “If things had turned out well I might be a very unhappy art professor in New York City.”

“If that's the good scenario I don't want to hear the bad.” Elio brings their entwined hands to his lips, kissing Oliver's knuckles.

“No, you won't.” They are both quiet for another moment before Oliver says: “Come on, Mafalda cooked enough pasta to feed an army.”

Maybe they both saved each other, Elio wonders as he stands on the gravel path leading up to the villa's entrance, breathing in the familiar smell he always misses when away, of pines and early blossoming fruit trees, cow dung and the freshly mowed lawn. Can two people really do that? Or is this just temporary relief, the two of them mooring together in a sheltered harbor for the time being while essentially two ships passing in the night? Was it all coincidence, or did the universe have a plan throwing them together?

Something cool brushes his cheek. Elio rubs the silver ring he still wears on his right hand. 'Cor Cordium'. He listens, but for now, the voices he thinks he sometimes hears are silent. 

Until Oliver calls out for him.

“Elio!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you see what I did here?
> 
> Thank you all so much for going on this journey with me! Your ongoing support meant the world! I started this story in March, so it has been with me for the most part of 2019. And what a year this has been…
> 
> I don’t think I’m really done with them. That’s why the end is not very... end-y. I leave them at the villa for now, with their plans, dreams, regrets, secrets. But I’m quite certain I will revisit them in some form.
> 
> But for now, I have a new story I will start to post in December. It’s already finished and I just have to polish its edges a little.
> 
> It’s something completely different, an Elio/Oliver AU set in New York City in 1899, and was inspired by The Alienist (and [mypinkcactus’](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPinkCactus/pseuds/MyPinkCactus) nagging, who kindly designed not one but two beautiful covers for the story :)
> 
> This new story, however, will be locked to AO3 users. So, if you don’t have an account already, now would be a good time to create one.
> 
> I’m locking it to avoid uninvited drama. For narrative purposes, Elio will be fifteen when the story starts, and there will be mentions of non-con (not between E/O though) as well as mild sexual content happening between Elio and Oliver, who’s in his mid-twenties. If that is a no-go for you, lets part here in peace.
> 
> Peach & Love!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll explain more what's going on in the next chapters. Just ask me if you need more info. I can't promise an update schedule.


End file.
